Calling the Wind
by LadyDeb1970
Summary: Dust-Mag 7 series crossover. Chapter Five. . .Amy's side of the story Angela died before she could finish Luke's story. What if Edge got it wrong? He learns the truth from a most unexpected source.
1. Prologue: The Rest of the Story

Disclaimer: I don't own the following characters: Luke, Elijah, Neda, Lilith, Angela, Amy, Edge, or the Teacher. Nor do I own the various characters from the television series, 'The Magnificent Seven' (not that I would want to own Will Richmond). However, the Patterson siblings are mine. This story was inspired by the movie '_Dust_,' starring David Wenham & Joseph Fiennes, and by my question after watching, 'what if Edge was wrong about Luke's fate?'

I will apologize in advance for any misspellings. . .my spell check isn't currently working. This has been beta'ed, but mistakes slip past even two people at times.

The story title is taken from the October Project song, 'Return to Me.'

Calling the Wind

Prologue: The Rest of the Story

They flew in silence for some time, a companionable silence, once Edge finished his story. Amy welcomed the silence. She needed time to think over what she would say. The story was most impressive, considering the last bit was made up solely from Edge's imagination. Angela was never the sort to confide in her diary, at least not according to her mother. On the other hand, Mama would hardly be surprised that Angela wanted to tell the story of the man who shaped her and her early life. Amy supposed she couldn't blame Angela for that. Her entire family was shaped by Luke and the changes he underwent in Macedonia.

Should she tell him the truth? The story which Edge told, the ending had a romantic mystique. . .a mercenary gunman finding his heart at last and sacrificing himself for atonement. The truth could be strange, but it could be mundane. And didn't she owe it to Luke to finish what Angela started? At last, Amy could no longer hold it in. She began to suspect when Edge began telling her the story of the two brothers in turn of the century America. Her suspicions were confirmed when he showed the picture of Luke and Elijah to her. She asked, because he expected her to. But she already knew.

"That was pretty good, for fitting the pieces of the story together without Angela's help," Amy said at last, and Edge looked at her in surprise. She smiled at him and continued, "Would you like to hear how the story _really_ ended? I can promise you, you had it almost perfect. Except for one small, minor detail." _Minor_, she thought, _except in my family. I wouldn't exist if his version was true._

"Uh-huh. And just how do you know this?" Edge asked. Amy smiled and looked down at the picture of Luke and Elijah once more. Legendary names in her family, for these last ninety-plus years. With the tip of her finger, she gently traced the features of first one brother, then the other. Family. It meant everything to Amy and those who raised her. After a moment, she looked up at him and smiled.

"Because, you could say, I'm related to Angela. Her. . .grand-niece, if you will. My family name is Hurst, and we can trace our ancestry back nearly a hundred years, in the panhandle of Texas," Amy began. She traced Luke's face once more, continuing, "But it really began in Macedonia, where my great-grandparents met. You see, Edge, Luke wasn't the first expatriate American whom Neda nursed back to health. . ."


	2. The Dust Settles

See prologue for disclaimer. . .I do not own most of the characters in this story. Only the Patterson family, and the personalities of certain characters from the movie. Don't worry. I've kept Luke true to himself (I hope). Quick note regarding the names. . .most of the names I've chosen for the characters that either didn't have names or the names were never mentioned directly in the movie, are Greek. 'Neda' is a Slavic name, however. When I tried to change the names of the characters in question, I got stonewalled. . .so they stayed Greek.

Calling the Wind

Part One

The Dust Settles

He was swaying on his feet, but he couldn't quit. Not yet. Not until Neda and the baby were safe. He felt the baby move under his hand when he stood at Neda's side, and he couldn't accept that he somehow caused that child's death. He was trying to save Neda. . .but instead, he may have killed her. The exhausted mercenary looked around. They were all down. Whatever soldiers he didn't shoot, the villagers did. . .women, children. Didn't matter.

A child's cry drew his attention back to Neda, and Luke saw the child in the arms of the midwife. His eyes shifted from the newly-born child to her mother. Neda smiled at him, a smile that said 'I knew I was right about you. I knew I was right to have faith in you.' Luke found himself smiling back. . .a real smile, the first one he could remember since his mother died and his father. . .

The moment didn't last. Neda's eyes closed and she slumped back. Luke saw his own dead mother in her place, and wanted to weep. The shots distracted him. . .or brought his attention back. He should have been dead. For a soldier was pointing his rifle at him now, but Luke didn't feel the familiar burn of a bullet as it tore into his flesh. Instead, the shots continued, one right after the other.

Stunned, Luke turned his attention to the direction of the shots. . .and received a surprise. He recognized the woman holding the rifle, the woman who just saved his life. A slight, dark-haired woman, who looked like she could have been Neda's sister. She was holding a rifle, tears streaming down her face, as she screamed at the soldier in Greek. That was the second surprise. Luke knew this woman. . .and up until now, thought she was deaf and dumb. Until a few minutes earlier, he never heard her speak.

The soldier who almost killed Luke crumpled to the ground, himself dead and his face a stunned mask. The woman fell to her knees and dropped the rifle, crawling on her hands and knees to Neda. She reached out a hand, and Luke closed his eyes. Not just to look away from her naked grief, but because the dizziness was becoming worse by the moment. He was tired. . .so very tired.

Through a haze of pain and dizziness, Luke vaguely heard the midwife telling the woman to see to him. . .they would take care of Neda and the baby. He shut the rest of the conversation out, choosing to focus on remaining upright. He didn't have the energy to spare, the energy required to think in another language. After a moment, however, it wasn't necessary, because an arm snaked around his waist.

Half-reluctantly and half-gratefully, he leaned against the strength offered. . .he had none of his own left. His ribs throbbed from where Elijah kicked him, and his shoulder sent pain pulsing through his entire body. Fortunately, this newcomer didn't touch his ribs. . .or anything else, for that matter. Luke was vaguely aware that his support, though considerably shorter than he was, managed to lead him to shelter without touching bare skin.

It looked like the Major was wrong. He saw an airplane and he wasn't dead. Luke wondered a bit fuzzily what he thought about that, and after a moment, decided he was glad. He wasn't ready to die. He wasn't finished. . .he still had unfinished business. It wasn't enough that he saved the baby. No. He cost the child her mother, and Luke had more to do before he could atone for that.

It was then that Luke received the third and greatest surprise of the day, and it sapped what little strength he had remaining. His support said quietly in English, "Get this one to bed, then see to Neda. . .oh god, Neda." Luke almost fell as he realized that the woman who prevented the soldier from killing him was another American. He forced his eyes open and saw the woman for the first time.

He never really paid her that much mind during his time in the village. . .he was struggling through what he saw after being shot. She was small, around the same size as Neda, and not as pretty. But then, he never saw Neda's face tight with rage. The woman stared back at him coldly. She wished him dead. Wished it was him lying out there, instead of Neda. And yet, she saved his life.

Luke wasn't entirely certain if she could read his expression or if he spoke the words aloud, but she replied, her accent clipped and cultured, "I shot that dog because I didn't want all of Neda's hard work to be for nothing. Get him inside before he falls down." Too late. Luke's knees buckled and he started to collapse. But warm and willing hands grasped him. . .unfortunately, about his waist and shoulders, and the pain sent Luke spiraling into darkness. He never felt himself lifted and carried into the house.

. . .

_Neda. Oh God, Neda_. The woman turned away from the house, resolutely forgetting about the unconscious man carried inside. She didn't care about him. He cost Neda her life, with his stupidity and carelessness. He was a mercenary. . .one who killed for money and gold. He was a mercenary. . .one of the men who killed her husband and turned the twenty-five year old Juliet Patterson Walker into a whore.

Oh, he wasn't in the same gang as those bastards. . .but he was made from the same cloth. Three years passed since Juliet was rescued by the Teacher and his young, lovely wife, but the scars remained. Juliet moved slowly, stiffly, away from the house and the staring eyes of the severed head put on dispay. Monsters. She hated the blond-haired mercenary called 'Luke,' but she hated the soldiers more for what they did to her savior and what they would have done to Neda.

She knelt quietly beside her dead friend, that slight smile still hovering on Neda's lips. Juliet saw Neda smile at the mercenary after the baby was born. The smile which said she never gave up on him. Juliet touched Neda's cheek, then kissed her forehead, whispering in English, "Rest well, my friend." She rocked back on her heels, looking at the midwife wearily. The older woman gently placed Neda's daughter in Juliet's arms, and the young woman drew her close.

"Angela," she whispered, "Daddy's little angel." She often heard the Teacher call his unborn daughter that. He believed Neda without question when she stated their child was a girl. Juliet kissed the baby's tiny forehead. She looked at her friend once more, wishing the old hatred of the mercenary would come back. She wanted to hate him. She wanted to hate him for old wrongs done against her and her husband. She wanted to hate him for not taking Neda with him. She wanted to hate him for not being more careful about where he shot and not noticing that Neda was behind his target.

She wanted to hold onto her grief and anger, but she was too tired. The last few days had been exhausting, between the revelation of the Teacher's severed head, the capture of the town. And most annoying of all, her rational, logical side was starting to reassert itself. It wasn't very practical for the mercenary to take a heavily pregnant woman with him, greed aside. She _knew_ that.

Even if the mercenary's bullet hadn't struck her, there was a very good chance that Neda wouldn't have survived long after her daughter was born. Juliet lived here long enough to know what would have happened to her friend. . .what would have happened to them all. Her rational side told her that when all was said and done, it wasn't the mercenary's fault. Her heart, on the other hand, wasn't ready to forgive.

The midwife said quietly in Greek, "You must not blame him. He did not lead the soldiers here. He is not one of the soldiers. And Neda believed in him." Juliet smiled without any real humor. Yes, Neda believed in him. Neda. Not Juliet. The older woman sighed and took Juliet's hand, saying softly, "She loved you, Juliet. Never did she think to take your younger sister's place, but she loved you as an older sister."

Her younger sister. Juliet bowed her head, thinking about Drusilla. More than three years passed since she last saw her little sister. Drusilla was how old now? Almost twenty-one? Yes, that sounded right. Her baby sister was a woman now. Juliet hoped she was continuing her studies. Drusilla fought like a banshee for admittance to a reputable medical school. . .and her little sister was just as stubborn as Juliet herself.

Stubborn and ferociously protective of what was hers. Drusilla warned Bruce, Juliet's husband, what would happen to him if Juliet was harmed in any way while they were in Europe. The older sister smiled grimly to herself, wondering what Drusilla would make of Juliet's Macedonian adventure. No doubt, she would eviscerate and castrate the mercenaries responsible for her elder sister's disgrace.

"You and Luke must take the little one to the United States, child. It is time for you to go home. . .and she has the hope of a better future in your country," the midwife said quietly, startling Juliet. The American woman raised her head and the midwife, Sophronia by name, continued, "It is how it must be. Sooner or later, the soldiers will come back. When that happens, none will survive. If the soldiers do not kill all, then it will be one of their renegade bands. You know this."

Juliet looked at her friend's daughter and wondered if her own lost child would have looked like this. She was pregnant at the time of her own abductions, but she lost that child thanks to the tender treatment of the mercenaries and the strain of watching her husband murdered, then beheaded. She said softly, "I will take her to America with me, old mother, and raise her as my own."

She made no mention of the mercenary, but the midwife said quietly, "You will need him, little one. You will need his protection. He is a killer, but that will work in your favor. He can protect you from others like him. Unlike them, he has a heart. He merely forgot how to use it. Neda reminded him. He will protect you, and the child, because of guilt. You must forgive him, child. If you are to survive, you must."

Unfortunately, Juliet couldn't argue with the old woman. The midwife was right, dammit to hell. She looked down at her friend's still, peaceful face, and murmured, "What did you see in him, sister, that I cannot?" Neda never lost faith in the mercenary. Even when he rode away with the gold that was Angela's birthright, she never lost faith that he would come back.

"His name is Luke, Juliet," Sophronia said in gentle reproof, "he is not one of the nameless shadows who cost you your husband and your child. He is capable of gentleness, it is merely hidden. And though he may find it easier to kill than to love, it is _not_ impossible for him to love. His name is Luke. And he is your best chance to see your homeland again. Have you not missed it?"

Juliet never allowed herself to think about that. It would hurt too much. She said softly, "If I go home, it will not be to Baltimore, where I grew up, but out West. My sister has spoken of opening a practice out in our West. They would be more accepting of a woman doctor. Out west, it would not matter, my past." In Baltimore, it would. She would still be the daughter of Sydney Patterson. . .eternally a disappointment because neither she nor Drusilla had the decency to be born a boy.

She wondered, a bit irrelevantly, if her father would have been pleased with a son such as the mercenary. She dared not think of him by name. Luke. It meant 'light,' and he had a dark soul. The rational side of her once more reminded her that she was being unfair to him. She had a darkness in her own soul, and who was she to judge him? But still, her heart couldn't forgive him.

Juliet looked at the old mother, saying softly, "If I do go. . .what will happen to you? To the children? To the women?" She nodded at Phaedra, one of the first female villagers to take up a rifle when the gunfight erupted. The young Macedonia woman returned the nod, grief reflecting in her eyes. There were other questions about her departure. What would they do for money, for one thing.

"That is our concern, child, though we love you for worrying for us. Your part in this is done. You keep telling yourself that you cannot forgive Luke for Neda's death, but the truth is, you already have. You would have not saved his life, otherwise," Sophronia replied. Juliet shook her head. No, that wasn't it at all. She killed that soldier to spare the children the necessity of picking up a gun. She killed him because if she hadn't, one of the children might have. She killed him because it was necessary.

It had nothing to do with the mercenary, aside from Juliet not wanting to see her friend's hard work turn to ash. That was it. She didn't care if he lived or if he died. Unfortunately, she knew Sophronia was right. It would be pure stupidity if she attempted to make the journey alone, just she and Angela. Juliet looked down at Neda's daughter, now her daughter.

Then she looked back at the old woman and sighed, "I know I need his help. But we cannot leave immediately. He hasn't the strength to travel, and I need time to plan. We will need money." It took all of her strength to admit that. It was bad enough that she couldn't do this alone. It was even worse, knowing that her and Angela's best chance for survival was a mercenary. But Juliet owed it to Neda. She owed it to Angela.

Sophronia patted her cheek, saying softly, "You will have no need to worry for money, child. But make your plans. In one month's time, once the boy has regained his strength, you and he will leave with the infant. And perhaps the two of you may heal each other's wounds." _Yes_, Juliet thought to herself with more than a touch of sarcasm, _and perhaps pigs might learn to fly_!

. . .

The child was stubborn as the day was long. . .but it helped to save her life. No doubt, those same headstrong tendencies would see her well through the coming days and weeks. Sophronia the midwife was also a healer. . .it was she who taught Neda about healing and nursing. It was Sophronia who cared for the injured young American mercenary when Nedda required rest.

It was also Sophronia who tended to the shattered young widow when the Teacher and his men carried the unconscious Juliet into their village three years earlier. She was draped over the arms of his second in command, her face ashen. Three weeks, she was in the hands of the animals who murdered her husband. Three weeks, she was their plaything. And three months was she mute with the horror of those three weeks.

Even now, she spoke little. She hadn't the heart for it. The only time the real Juliet would appear was when she was with children. Then, a true smile would light her face and she would actually laugh. The other time was when she was around Neda. Sweet Neda. Sophronia mourned the girl's loss. She was a bright spot to everyone in the village, from her husband to the mercenary whom she saved.

Now, as Sophronia tended to that mercenary, still unconscious from blood loss and exhaustion, she smiled to herself. He was strong, just as Juliet was. A lost soul, just as Juliet was. They were more alike than they were different, but it would take Juliet much time to see that. Poor child. Sophronia could never bear to tell Juliet that her lost child was a daughter.

However, it was not Juliet who needed her right now. The boy's name was Luke, Sophronia learned during his first time in this village. He was around the same age as Juliet, older than Neda by about five or six years. His handsome face was pale and Sophronia clucked under her breath. . .either he was shot once more, or his previous shoulder wound was reopened. Neither was good.

"Foolish, foolish boy," she chastised in Greek, never mind that he couldn't hear her, "What did you do to yourself?" Perhaps that was the wrong question. A quick examination told her that some of his ribs were cracked. Bruises decorated his side, and Sophronia realized that the boy was beaten. As she touched his side, he moaned, even unconscious. A month before he was fit to travel, before he was fit to protect once more.

Blue eyes fluttered open and stared up at Sophronia. He wasn't awake. . .he was awake, but he wasn't truly with her. He looked so confused. By the pain? By being alive? Sophronia gently stroked the dark blond hair back from his forehead, murmuring, "Sleep, child. Just sleep. Old Sophronia will take care of you. Just sleep." She continued to caress his hair, as she would have one of the children.

His lips formed words, and he coughed, the spasms shaking his slender body. Sophronia watched him carefully, to make sure he was not coughing blood. When no blood appeared, she gently raised his head and gave him a little drink of water. Not too much, and the boy whispered, "Why?" Sophronia looked at him as she eased his head back to the pillow. Again, he rasped out, "Why?"

Ah. He wanted to know why they were taking care of him. . .why they put so much effort into saving him. He wanted to know why they thought he was worth saving. Sophronia caressed his hair again, answering in English, "Because, child. You are not a bad man. You left, yes. . .but you came back. If you were a bad man, you would not have returned. You came back. You kept the soldiers away from Neda while she fought to bring her baby daughter into the world."

"I. . .killed. . .her," came the hoarse answer, and tears sparkled in his blue eyes. The grief and guilt Sophronia mentioned to Juliet was there. Did he love Neda? Perhaps. Sophronia knew men such as this. . .they learned how to fight, but love was not something they understood. It was not that they were incapable of love. . .but they never had anyone to love them and teach them to love.

"No, child. Shhhhh. . .just rest now. Whatever your sins, you must have a chance to atone. I know a way to do that. Now rest. You will need your strength for what is to come," Sophronia soothed gently. The eyes staring up at her were indeed those of a child. He was so terribly young to her. She was an old lady, but in some ways, he seemed very much like her fourteen year old grandson.

She wasn't entirely certain how old Luke was, but her instincts told her that he was perhaps a year or two older than Juliet. She was twenty-eight now, passing her birthday only a few months earlier. _You would be pleased, daughter_, Sophronia told Neda's spirit, _someone still watches over both of them, your American strays_. That was what Luke and Juliet were called. Neda's American strays.

Luke closed his eyes, his breathing evening out as he fell asleep once more. He required that, more than anything else. Sophronia looked out to where Juliet was walking with Angela. The child always did that. . .walked when she was troubled. Sophronia sighed quietly. There was a third part to Juliet's fury toward Luke, and again, it was not truly directed at him.

Sophronia knew she wasn't the only one in the village who noticed that their unexpected American guest was quite handsome. Neda noticed. She loved her husband, but she still noticed. As did Juliet. Sophronia often heard Neda teasing Juliet about the way she would look at Luke while he was recuperating from his gunshot wound. Yes, that helped matters not at all.

It was bad enough that Juliet was looking at someone twice for the first time since her husband was murdered. But it must have seemed like a betrayal to the girl, to notice a man such as those who killed her husband. She had to feel like she was betraying her husband's memory twice over. Sophronia noticed the way Juliet looked at the other American. She also noticed the way Juliet avoided touching him directly when she led him away from the gun battle.

The old woman shook her head, murmuring to her aide to lift Luke up from the bed, so she could stabilize his cracked ribs. Foolish children. When they lived to be her age, they would learn that life was too short for such foolishness. If Bruce Walker cared for his wife, he would be pleased that she was moving forward with his life. On the other hand, she had her doubts about whether Bruce loved his wife.

Delicate questioning of the widow told Sophronia that she knew little of pleasure. To her, pleasuring was unheard of. Conjugal relations were a duty, not a pleasure. Sophronia scowled, though not at her patient or at Juliet. No, she was scowling at whoever taught the young widow that her pleasure was not important. The Teacher knew better. Indeed, Juliet overheard one such session between the husband and wife quite by accident, and it was such an occurrence that led to the conversation between Sophronia and Juliet.

So many similarities between her patient and her young friend. One found it easier to kill than to love, for he never really learned how to love. The other. . .the other covered her own passionate impulses with a thick layer of ice. She could love. Her baby sister was as devoted to her as she was to Drusilla. But to anyone who didn't bother to look, she was cold and remote.

A faint smile touched Sophronia's mouth as she thought about the coming months, as Luke and Juliet traveled together. He would travel with them, Sophronia knew, to protect them. That was never in question. But what she found amusing was the idea of the pair. A young widow with a shielded heart and an impulsive young gunman whose trigger finger worked much faster than his brain.

Luke could melt the ice around Juliet's heart, and she could restore his soul to him. That was, of course, assuming that they didn't kill each other first!

. . .

It took no education and little intelligence, really, to know that Juliet was troubled. She was walking with the baby in her arms, outside the house where old Sophronia was caring for the American mercenary. She always walked in such a way when she was troubled. But what Phaedra didn't know was the reason for Juliet's worries. She and Juliet never truly got along.

There was mutual respect, of course. Each respected the other's place in Neda's life and heart. They just didn't like each other. Now, however, Phaedra almost felt responsible for Juliet. Perhaps because Juliet picked up a rifle to defend Phaedra's village. Everyone knew how much she hated guns. It was no secret. Just as it was no secret that she hated the mercenaries.

No, Phaedra could never call herself Juliet's friend, but she did pity the American woman, and she did respect her. It took a woman of great strength to keep living after suffering a loss such as Juliet did. Perhaps it would have been easier if the widow ever thought herself unique. . .thought she was the first person to lose her husband and her child. But she did not.

Perhaps that was what made Phaedra so angry. Though she knew it took strength to keep living from day to day after such a loss, it made Phaedra angry to see Juliet's quiet acceptance. Did she think she deserved such pain? Such grief? It angered her to see the quiet acceptance, and the utter lack of arrogance. Whatever arrogance Juliet Patterson Walker possessed, it was gone by the time the Teacher found her.

And she was Neda's friend. She took up a rifle, something she hated, to defend Phaedra's village, to avenge the deaths of so many. It was this that pushed Phaedra away from her point of observation and approach the widow. Juliet's face was tight with grief, and Phaedra said softly in Greek, "I mourn for her as well. Many of us loved Neda, though we feared the American she brought here."

Juliet looked up with a sigh, answering in the same language, "I feared that as well. We were right to fear." This was said with bitterness, and Phaedra wondered why it was that only Juliet blamed the man for Neda's death. It was his bullet that struck her, yes, but. . . Juliet went on after a moment, "How can you forgive him? He refused to take her with him. He could have avoided all this."

Since she was holding Neda's daughter, Juliet jerked her chin in the general direction of the village. Phaedra answered quietly, "Because he came back. He could have kept going, but he came back. And his distraction was quite imaginative." Using the greed of the soldiers against them. That was quite good, in Phaedra's opinion. And unlike Juliet, Phaedra saw the horror in the eyes of the mercenary when he realized his bullet struck not only his target but Neda as well.

Juliet merely grunted, and Phaedra added, "I think you wish to hate him. He is not a bad man. A bad man would not have come back. A bad man would not have grieved about shooting Neda. It was an accident, Juliet. He came here to rescue her. You did not see his expression when he saw Neda fall. Nor did you see him smile at her, after the baby was born. A real smile, one from his heart."

Phaedra saw, though. She saw Neda smile at the tall, blond man when her daughter was safely delivered. She saw him return the smile. . .an unexpectedly sweet smile, one that went to Phaedra's very heart. She regretted not seeing the danger to him in time, even as she was grateful that Juliet did. Whatever her reasoning, Juliet saved his life, just as Neda did.

Someone would have to tell him that, if he didn't already know. One thing she learned about the blond American. . .he protected what was his. The moment Juliet picked up a rifle to deal with the soldier threatening his life, she became his. Just as Neda became his when she picked him up and cradled him against her body. Just as the little one was now his, though Phaedra knew it would take him time to accept that.

Knowing that, she said softly, "He came back. He came back, and he tried to take Neda to safety. Why is that worth nothing? Because he is not the Teacher? Because he does not always think with his brain? Most men are like that, Juliet. They think with their lower brain. The mercenary thinks with his trigger finger, but that does not make him a bad man."

Juliet didn't answer. Phaedra sighed, then asked softly, "Do you think I betray our friend, Juliet, when I forgive him?" Juliet shook her head slowly. So this wasn't about Neda. At least, not completely. Phaedra reached out tentatively and put her hand on Juliet's shoulder, encouraged when the American didn't move away. She said softly, "Long have we had our differences, Juliet. But we both mourn for our friend. We both loved her. Forgive him. . .because you did love her."

Slowly, Juliet released her breath and turned to look at Phaedra, grief shining in her dark eyes as she replied, "I am to travel with him, Phaedra, back to the States. Him and Neda's Angela." Angela. So that was the name chosen for Neda's daughter. Juliet continued, "I am afraid. I have not seen my home in three years. I do not even know if my little sister still lives. And he frightens me."

No need to elaborate which 'he' was meant. Phaedra asked softly, "Do you fear him because he is of the same occupation as your husband's murderers?" A hesitation, then a slow nod. Phaedra realized that was a very small part of Juliet's fear. The Macedonian woman asked next, "That is not all that frightens you about it? Is it that he is handsome. . .or the way you feel when you look at him?"

Phaedra realized immediately that she went too far, and allowed her hand to drop at the rage burning in Juliet's eyes. She did not question further. At least, not about that. Instead, she asked the other woman once some of the fury dulled, "When do you leave? It will take much time to reach a port, and he is barely able to stand, much less travel such a distance."

"In a month's time, maybe more. Angela is too small to travel. I need time to plan. He needs time to heal, or he'll be no good to us. The old mother wishes him to accompany us as a protector," Juliet said, a note of contempt entering her voice when she spoke the word 'protector.' Privately, Phaedra thought Sophronia was wise. Who better to protect a woman and child from highwaymen than a mercenary, someone who knew the tricks and ambushes used?

"We will be sorry to see you go," Phaedra said formally and realized she meant it. Never did she and Juliet get along, but she never wished the American harm. Juliet responded with a half-smile. Phaedra squeezed the other woman's shoulder briefly, nodded to her, then walked away. She wondered again why she found it so much easier to forgive the mercenary for Neda's death.

Because she knew what would have happened to Neda, had he not come? Because she looked into his eyes after Neda's death, and knew that he would have not fought death? Because that look into his eyes told her that Neda began the process of unchaining his heart, and it would be a terrible pity if that process was halted? Perhaps. She only hoped that Juliet saw her way to giving the mercenary a chance to win her trust.

She hoped that, not just for the mercenary, but for Angela. She feared the little girl would not survive long with two people who did not trust each other. Angela deserved better, as did Neda. Phaedra smiled suddenly, wondering if Juliet realized yet just how similar she and the mercenary were. Not likely. Even if she did, she would never admit to it.

Sophronia was a wise woman, to send them together. Their shared guilt and grief would bind them together, their grief and guilt and Angela. In all the time she was here, Juliet never found true healing. She was still outwardly cold. Despite Neda's care, the mercenary never found healing as well. The wounds they carried were caused long before they arrived here. Healing for those wounds would not be found here, either.

In the coming days, they would bury Neda. For a moment, Phaedra received an image in her brain, an image so clear, she almost thought it was a vision. And it was, but not of the future. Rather, it was a vision of what might have been. If Juliet had not taken up the rifle and shot the soldier full of holes. She saw Neda and the mercenary, lying side by side. She shuddered and continued walking.

It was time she started cleaning and preparing Neda's body for the funeral. They were robbed of this chance with the Teacher. They would pay honor to him by honoring his wife. Phaedra reached the door of her home and leaned her forehead against the door. Inside. She would weep for Neda and the Teacher once she was inside. She would weep for everyone once she was inside.

. . .

Pain in his side returned him slowly to the land of living, and Luke groaned as the throbbing intensified. A gentle hand caressed his forehead and a soft voice murmured to him. He didn't understand the words, though he recognized them. Slowly, his pain-dazed mind comprehended the words as he was able to translate them into English. _Be still, young one. . .make not a movement, nor a sound._

Danger, then. Luke found that if he held his breath, his side didn't hurt quite so badly. He complied with the request, not entirely sure what was wrong. And then he heard it. His brother's voice. Elijah. Elijah found him, and would finish the job this time. The old woman said, switching to English, "You see? Your brother died a matter of hours ago. You see how peaceful his face looks? We say, an hour after death, one's true face is shown to the world."

A gentle hand rested on Luke's forehead, and he prayed silently that his brother didn't notice his pulse at his temples. Then Elijah bent down and pressed a kiss to each temple, murmuring, "Forgive me, brother. Thank you for taking care of him." Remembering his visions, his dreams while unconscious, Luke almost called out to his brother, to comfort him.

Then Elijah was slowly walking out of the house, and Luke heard the voice of the woman who kept the soldier from shooting him. She coolly informed his brother that Luke's body would be remaining here in Macedonia, so the people of the village could honor the man who aided them. Luke almost snorted at that, but the ever-present pain in his ribs prevented such foolishness.

Elijah asked if there was anything he could do for them, but the girl said 'no.' After another few moments of conversation, Elijah left and Luke opened his eyes to see the ancient healer and midwife at his side. She smiled down at him, saying, "Hello, young one, it is good to see your eyes open. Have you slept well?" Luke was still very tired, and she added, "You have been asleep for nearly a week."

A week?! Luke almost bolted up at that, but the twin pain in his side and shoulder quickly put a stop to that. He slumped back, moaning in spite of himself. The old woman chided, "You must listen to old Sophronia, child! Has he gone, Juliet?" Luke opened his eyes as the dark-haired woman from earlier entered the house once more. She nodded, her eyes cold at she stared at him.

"I do not believe he will return. Phaedra is caring for Angela," the woman named 'Juliet' replied in Greek. Huh. She was one of 'them.' Not the Macedonians, but one of the upper-class who looked down on him and Elijah, like she was somehow better than them. Luke heard it in her accent, and in the proper Greek she spoke. She spoke the language like a native, an educated native.

"Behave, children," Sophronia warned, though there was a light note in her voice. Luke looked up at the old woman, who continued, "Remember, if you wish to see your home once more, you will need each other." Need each other? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Sophronia stared down at him, saying, "Juliet and Angela will accompany you back to America."

The hell they were! Didn't they understand? He came for Neda, and got her killed! What made them think he could save these two? He couldn't even save himself! The woman named 'Juliet' said in a cool voice, "I like it as well as you do, mercenary. Unfortunately, Sophronia is right. A woman and child would stand no chance traveling to the sea alone. You're a mercenary. You know how they think. . .so you're our best chance at survival."

Hellfire! Put like that, Luke couldn't argue with her. He supposed he could have denied that he cared anything about Neda's child, but he tried that once before. Didn't work. He sighed, closing his eyes. And again, he felt the old healer's fingers run through his hair. She reminded him of his ma when she did that. Ma. . .she had been a beautiful woman, made old before her time.

He inherited her hair and her eyes, though the sun turned his red hair dark gold. His mother died when he was fourteen. . .exhausted from years of running away from his step-father. Luke never knew his real father. Didn't want to know him, neither. Where his mother was concerned, Luke was still the fourteen year old boy who found himself mother, father, and older brother to nine year old Elijah.

For too many years, Luke saw the dark side of life as the man of the house, trying to provide for his mother and brother. He was named 'Luke,' because his father brought light into his mother's life. Brought light into her life, then abandoned her. Just as he abandoned Neda. Well, well. Seemed Luke was his father's son after all. He was unaware that he spoke aloud, until Sophronia said, "You are not. You came back. You have more honor than the man who abandoned the woman who would bear his child."

Honor. Now there was a term never applied to Luke before. Hell, he didn't even know the meaning of the word! Sophronia touched his face, drawing his eyes open once more, and said softly, "You do have honor, Luke. Do not take Juliet's fury to heart, though it seems she hates you. It is not you whom she hates, but what you represent. Give her time, and she will see what Neda saw."

And what was that? Sophronia again read his expression, and smiled, replying, "A decent man. . .an honorable man, who lost his way a long time ago, and is now finding it back. You are what you are, and make no excuses for it. There is honesty and honor in that path. We feared you in the beginning, for we knew you to be a mercenary, one who fights for gold. But Neda saw something in your eyes. . .something that made her decide you were worth saving. . .worth fighting for."

"Ya said that she don't hate me, but what I represent. What does that mean?" Luke asked, not wanting to think about Neda's faith in him at the moment. He came back because he owed it to Neda, not to leave her in the hands of those soldiers. He came back because. . .because she was the first person since his mother died who took care of him. Not because she wanted something from him, but because she wanted to.

"It means, child, that mercenaries cost Juliet everything dear to her. Her husband. Her unborn child. Almost her sanity," Sophronia answered heavily. She pushed him back against the pillows, and unfortunately, Luke lacked the strength to fight. He lay back, and Sophronia continued, "She was twenty-five years of age when she came to Macedonia with her husband. He was a fool. . .if he wanted to die, that was his business, but he should have never brought his pregnant wife with him."

Luke thought much the same thing, but kept his opinions to himself. Sophronia continued, "They were in country for about two weeks when they were attacked by mercenaries, who were also drawn here by the lure of gold for the Teacher's capture. Bruce Walker was a man of the city. Had no understanding of such men. It cost him his life. . .it cost him his head."

Luke thought back to the Teacher's severed head, held by the hair. Sophronia went on, "Bruce Walker was the fortunate one. He died almost instantly. Juliet, poor child, became their plaything. She was in their hands for three weeks, before the Teacher and his men freed her. But by that time, it was too late to save her unborn daughter. She was five months pregnant, and those rutting pigs caused her to miscarry her baby."

The blond American closed his eyes. The moment Sophronia said that the woman became their plaything, he knew what happened. Knew, because he wasn't so very different from those men. And it made him ill. Sophronia went on, "She was unconscious when they brought her back to the village. We buried her daughter, then set to saving the mother."

"Nearly three months passed before she would speak. Her time in captivity shattered her. For a long time, we thought it shattered her mind, as well as spirit," said a new voice. Luke looked toward the door, where a dark-haired young woman stood. He recognized her as the first woman to take up arms against the soldiers. The woman continued, "Neda never gave up on her. She washed her hair and combed it, and bathed her. She talked to her."

Luke remembered his own recovery after being shot by his brother. Yeah, he had no doubt that Neda refused to give up on the dark-haired American girl. The Macedonian woman added, "Even now, she says little. Especially around strangers. I saw the surprise in your eyes when you heard her speak. You frighten her. A living reminder of the men who tortured her."

The walls were closing in on the former mercenary. He could feel them closing in. Before Neda, he would have had no trouble walking away from this place and never coming back. But Neda changed him. He failed to save her, and that meant he had an obligation to her daughter. However, he couldn't do that alone. What did he know about taking care of a baby? Not a damn thing. Juliet Walker had to come with him. He had to protect them both. Had to make things right, for Neda.

With a sigh, Luke asked, "When do ya want us to leave?" Luke, though impulsive and given to reacting, was actually quite intelligent. He knew he didn't have long before they had to leave. And he would have to be careful about when they traveled. A blond-haired, blue-eyed American would stick out like a sore thumb in a land of primarily dark-haired, dark-eyed people.

"At least a month. You need time to heal. . .and Juliet needs time to plan. You will work well together, when you learn to trust each other. Rest now. The next time you awake, I will take you to Neda's grave, so you might say good-bye to her," Sophronia said quietly. Luke closed his eyes, not even bothering to answer, and slipped back into the comfort of sleep once more.

. . .

Edge was nervous as the plane began its descent, but Amy needed a moment to take a breath. This time, she didn't mind him holding her hand. Edge said softly, "You know, you still ain't told me how you know all this. You tell me that I only made one little mistake in putting the pieces together. . .but Luke survived the gunfight. That ain't a little mistake, you know!"

Amy smiled at him, replying, "I know. But still, you were un-nervingly close on all the details. . . from Luke's diversion, to Neda's death, Phaedra taking up a rifle, to Luke being laid alongside Neda. True, it was a what might have been, but still. And I know about this because I have the journals of many people. Journals and letters. Despite their initial apathy toward each other, Juliet wrote Phaedra when she reached the United States, to let her know that they were safely back on American soil."

"And this Phaedra told Juliet 'bout her vision, about what might have been, if Juliet didn't pick up that rifle," Edge guessed. Amy nodded. Edge gave a muffled gulp as they hit another air pocket. After a moment, he continued, "So, Juliet had good reason to hate Luke. I mean, he ain't the one who killed her old man and raped her, but still, she had good reason to hate him."

"Even by Luke's standards, she had reason. Angela was right. Luke could be a mean bastard. He admitted it outright. But being a mean bastard kept him, his brother, and their mother alive. Word got around that harming Charlotte or Elijah would result in a visit from Luke, and nobody wanted that. I often think that Neda reminded Luke of his own mother," Amy observed.

"Charlotte? She was his mother?" Edge questioned. Amy nodded, and her companion went on, "What was she like? Did the journals or letters ever mention that?" Amy smiled, remembering the many family photos that existed at her childhood home. There were pictures of Luke's mother, before an abusive husband, illness, and exhaustion took their toll on her.

"She was beautiful. I've seen many pictures of her, especially sketches Luke did from memory. Before TB and running from her ex-husband destroyed her health. She had red hair. . .Luke inherited his hair from her, his hair and his eyes. And her boys were the center of her world. Luke always swore that his mother died of a broken heart," Amy replied. Edge cocked his head and looked at her.

"You know, you almost talk about Luke as if you knew him. Like Angela done," Edge observed. Amy grinned. She wasn't ready to tell him everything. And she wasn't sure she liked the comparison to Angela. There was still bad blood remaining within her family, thanks to Angela's behavior back in the 1920's. Her own grandmother had never truly forgiven Angela, and that spilled over to the rest of the family.

"Well, that right there should have told you that Luke survived the gunfight. I mean, think about it. Did she sound like she talked about someone whom she never really knew, someone who died only moments after she was born?" Amy questioned. Edge shrugged, and Amy continued, "Of course not. You told me that she broke your nose during your first meeting. Does that sound like something Elijah would teach his daughter, the child he raised?"

Now Edge looked downright sheepish, for he never thought about that. He replied, "I guess I figured it would make a better story. Angela never finished the story, and the newpaper clippings didn't tell me what I needed to know. It was kinda cool, you know. Like Luke. Going out in a blaze of glory, givin' up his life to save Angela, even though he couldn't save Neda."

"Cool, sure. . .but Luke was very practical. Sometimes devastatingly so. Who do you think taught Angela how to throw a punch? Luke, of course. Teaching his daughter how to throw a punch, and know that she broke someone's nose, would never occur to Elijah. I suppose you reminded her of Luke. Isn't it a reality, Edge, that the more you heard, the more you wanted to be like him?" Amy asked.

Edge looked down and muttered, "Yeah, I guess I did. It was. . .you know. . .he didn't take crap off nobody." Amy smiled at that. Yeah, she knew what he meant. Luke was legendary in the family. . .but no one ever turned him into a saint. The effort was never made. Like her cousin, Rusty, said. . .Luke would have rolled over in his grave a few dozen times if someone ever tried to make him into something he wasn't.

He was loved and honored in her family for being the stubborn, contrary man he was. That included being a mean bastard. But it's like they always said, 'Luke was a mean bastard. But he's OUR mean bastard.' Once upon a time, Amy's grandmother corrected the grammar. After a while, she didn't bother. No sense in wasting her breath. Much less for a reason like this.

_Then again_, Amy thought with more than a trace of humor, _Gramma always was her father's daughter_. It was her grandmother who raised Amy after the deaths of her parents. Like her father before her, Gramma Faye never suffered fools gladly. And she would have never raised one either. As always, Amy felt a pang of grief when she thought of her grandmother.

After a moment, however, she said, "I'll tell you more about Luke and Juliet when we land. We have quite a distance to cover before we reach the village where Angela was born, and that will leave plenty of time for me to tell you about the months between Luke's awakening and their departure on the journey to the coast. Macedonia is land-locked, after all, and that was why Luke wanted to travel at night. It was less dangerous, strange as that might sound to us."

"Months? Did Luke's recovery take longer than they originally thought it would?" Edge asked and Amy nodded, remembering what she read in Juliet's diary. The widow refused to discuss Luke much in those early days, but ever so often, a reference would creep in. Amy's companion added after a moment, "I suppose that makes sense, though. I mean, the man should have died more than once. Sounds like Luke had about as many lives as a cat."

"Pretty close," Amy admitted, "he had about as many lives as a cat, and he was stubborn. Headstrong. Willful, take your pick. The man didn't know how to give up. Neither did Juliet, and you can bet things got interesting during their journey, and even before. Luke was recovering during this time, and while he slept often during the early weeks, there came a time when he could sleep no more."

"Gets boring, trying to recover," Edge said, nodding. Amy agreed. . .that was the exact same thing that troubled Luke. Twice, he was given a second chance. Each time he was resurrected, so to speak, more changes were wrought in him. Yet, one thing remained the same. He still didn't think things through. Edge asked, "What did he do to entertain himself?"

"Annoyed Juliet, more than anything else," Amy admitted wryly. Edge looked at her, and the blonde girl continued, "Remember, he slept a great deal after the gunfight. What he learned during his periods of wakefulness, he didn't always remember. Or maybe, he just didn't want to remember. That was the case with Juliet. He forgot, or wanted to forget, what he learned about her past."

"Uh-oh," Edge muttered. Amy laughed softly. Yes, she could see how he would arrive at that conclusion. Edge shook his head after a moment and said, "Man, I tell you. Luke mighta been good with a gun, but he had no idea with women!" Amy's laughter was a little louder this time. Sometimes, people took a while to learn things. And a man couldn't change the way he thought overnight.


	3. The Journey Begins

Calling the Wind

Part Two

The Journey Begins

More than five hours later, the plane was on the ground, Amy and Edge had gone through customs, and they were in a rental car, headed for the small village where Angela was born more than ninety years earlier. Edge continued to cradle the urn holding his friend's ashes against his chest. He wondered briefly at Amy, and how she still refused to tell him how she knew so much about the brothers.

He realized early in Angela's tale that she was Neda's unborn child. The way she spoke of Neda, telling him that she would have made a good mother. But Edge couldn't figure out what Amy's involvement was in the family. She told him that she was, in a manner of speaking, Angela's great-niece. He stopped and thought about that. Then he looked at his companion as they drove the roads of Macedonia.

Blonde haired and blue eyed. She had Luke's coloring, he realized for the first time, and she knew stories that Angela never told him. It was possible, of course, that she wasn't telling him the truth. But he didn't think so. She told him of journals and letters, and Edge asked slowly, "You're a member of Luke's family, aren't you? That's how you know so much about him?"

Amy smiled, as if to say, '_I wondered how long it would take you to figure that out_.' She nodded, keeping her eyes on the road, and replied, "He was my great-grandfather. My parents died when I was fourteen. . .the same age Luke was when he lost his mother. . .and I was raised by my grandmother, Luke's middle daughter. Gramma Faye used to tell me that she saw her father every time she looked into my eyes. I guess I grew up, feeling like I had a connection to Luke."

"No shit? Your gramma was Luke's daughter?" Edge questioned in amazement. Amy nodded once more, her grin widening, and Edge sat back. He said after a moment, "Daaaaaaaamn! Guess that explains a lot. Including your comment that Angela was your great-aunt, in a manner of speaking. So, did you know Angela while you were growin' up, since she was your gramma's sister?"

"No, not really," Amy said a bit reluctantly, "the truth is, Gramma Faye and Angela had a terrible falling out in the 1920's. Actually, Angela fell out with the rest of the family. Most of the family eventually forgave her. . .Gramma Faye was the only hold out." She flashed him a rueful smile, adding, "Gramma Faye was her father's daughter in more ways than one."

Edge decided not to ask about that. Instead, as they drove along, he chose to ask about the events of nearly a century ago. He wondered how different it was then, for a still weak mercenary and a brittle widow traveling with a small child, and asked, "So, you were gonna tell me more about Luke and Juliet. . .him harassing her for entertainment purposes, once he could stay awake for any length of time."

Amy sighed, blowing her hair out of her eyes, and answered, "Yeah, he did. None of us really know why he did it. The prevailing theory is, he didn't remember what he was told when he first woke up. He could be mean, but tended not to be deliberately cruel. Tended. And as protective of her as he became later, it makes more sense. Plus, he lost a lot of blood. . .he was lucky to focus on one thing for any amount of time."

"People don't always make sense," Edge murmured, thinking of his own life. Amy nodded her agreement, and the young man continued, "But that still don't answer my question. Even if your family's theory is right. . .why would he hassle her for entertainment? I mean, that's like poking a rattler, ain't it?" That was the best way he could put it, and seemed to fit the general theme of the story.

"Not exactly. Juliet was very quiet, remember? She had no trouble getting under his skin. He was returning the favor. Luke made the same mistake a lot of people make when they're dealing with a quiet person. . .they think they're dealing with someone who will give into a minor eruption, then move on. That's not the way it works. When Luke finally pushed Juliet too far, he got a Mount St Helens eruption," Amy replied. Edge frowned. He knew what Mount St Helens was. . .barely. He was pretty little when it erupted back in the early '80's.

Amy was nice enough to elaborate, saying, "When Luke finally pushed Juliet too far, it wasn't just her frustration with his remarks that came to the surface. It was everything she held in during the last three years. Phaedra and others commented that Juliet surrounded herself with a wall of ice. She suppressed her anger. . .her anger with the mercenaries who killed her husband and child, her anger with her husband, for taking them to Macedonia in the first place, anger with herself. . ."

Edge could _not_ let that pass. He blurted out, "Whoa! What do you mean, anger with herself? She didn't do nothing wrong! She was just an innocent victim, she didn't deserve none of that shit that happened to her!" Amy smiled sadly, glancing in her rear view ever so often. Just to be safe, he guessed. This was Edge's first time out of the country. He didn't know what to expect.

"She blamed herself, though. She blamed herself for not stopping the mercenaries from raping her. She blamed herself for not telling her husband more emphatically that she didn't want to go to Macedonia. She blamed herself for not protecting her little girl. She named her daughter in her heart, did I mention that? She did. Her daughter would have been named after Juliet's mother, Abigail. Was any of it her fault? Of course not. But she blamed herself anyhow. . ." Amy explained.

. . .

Macedonia, 1903. . .two months after Neda's death 

He was bored.

He was beyond bored.

For the last seven weeks. . .Luke kept track of them in his head. . .he did little but eat and sleep. That wouldn't have been so bad, if it weren't for the dreams. Every damn night over the last two months, he had the same goddamn dream. The day he came to free Neda and killed her instead. Except this time, the baby died, too. Too many mornings, he awoke with tears on his cheeks.

Phaedra and Sophronia seemed to sense when these mornings would be the worst, because they always swept into the sickroom, bearing Angela in their arms. Not that this helped in the beginning. Luke couldn't stop shaking the first time he held the baby. She was so tiny, and his arms were still so weak. He was terrified he would drop her on her head, or worse. Luke grimaced when that thought crossed his mind, as it inevitably brought back memories of his father, or rather, of his step-father.

Even now, fifteen years after learning the truth, it was hard to remember that the man who raised him for his first five years wasn't really his father. Then he would think about seeing the bruises on his mother's face, and the tears running down her cheeks when she took him and Elijah away for good, and it wasn't so hard to forget after all. Luke could have forgiven him for smacking him around, and telling him that he thought his mother must have dropped him on his head when he was a baby.

But he couldn't forgive him for hurting his mother. Any more than he could forgive his birth father for abandoning him and his mother. For most of his life, Luke only loved two people. . .his mother and his brother. His mother left him (why he didn't hate her for that never even crossed his mind) and his brother. . . Elijah. Luke closed his eyes, sinking back against his pillows.

Elijah. Lilith. Elijah's question about the baby Lilith carried when she drowned herself. Sarah. _Stop it_, he thought, _stop, stop, stop_! But the questions just wouldn't leave him be. It was like this for the last seven weeks. His body didn't finish recovering the last time, before his departure, and now he was paying for it. He barely remembered being taken to Neda's grave, to say good-bye.

And he would have denied it with his dying breath, if someone told him that he wept like a child over the new grave. He didn't remember it. He didn't want to remember it. It was so much easier, before. Before he almost died, before Neda saved his life, and there were times when he hated Juliet Walker with a passion for taking up that rifle. That emptiness in his chest got worse, and he had no idea how to fill it.

Most of the time, he hadn't the energy to fight with people. Besides, the villagers didn't want to fight with him. He was still recovering, and for some godforsaken reason, they seemed to see him as a hero. Him, a hero? That was a bunch of bullshit. He didn't do it for them, why didn't they understand that? He came back for Neda, and only Neda. And he couldn't even do that right!

Juliet Walker was the only one who seemed to see Luke as he really was, and the only one who would probably have fought with him. And she seemed to think he wasn't worth her time. Oh, she came into the house sometimes, quiet as a ghost, her skirt sweeping the floor. But she barely even looked at him. She didn't need to. He could feel her anger and resentment. He wasn't particularly sensitive, but it wasn't necessary. Her hatred of him was so strong, it was almost a living thing.

Over the last few days, as his body grew stronger, he began needling her whenever she entered the house. Not with Angela, though. The baby seemed to know what was going on, and she would start crying. Luke couldn't handle it when she cried. Her sobs sounded too much like her mother after. . . He just couldn't. . . If Angela cried, Luke held on until they left the house, then wept into his pillow where no one could see him. Where no one would think less of him, because they didn't see how weak he was.

In Luke's world, weakness meant death. He wasn't sure he wanted to live, but he also wasn't ready to die. He wasn't ready for this new world and its new technology. But his fever dreams after Neda found him reminded him that he didn't know what would happen to him after he died. The memory of his little brother, now an old man, passing right through him caused a chill in his soul.

Just as the words of the woman caused a chill in his soul. The woman, Elijah's daughter. Lilith told him that he knew her as a baby. '_Luke's been dead for forty years_.' That was enough of a shock. . .but when Elijah passed through him, then collapsed. . . It scared Luke. When he was a little boy, his mother read to him from a story called 'A Christmas Carol.' One of the things that stayed with Luke, even after he reached adulthood, was the Ghost of Christmas Future. A warning to Ebenezer Scrooge of what might be, in the future.

Luke was still a young man, but even so, that Ghost of Christmas Future haunted him. Trouble was, he didn't know how or what he was supposed to do. He was thirty years old, and he knew no other way of life. While he was with the mercenaries, trying to track down the Teacher, he felt like he belonged somewhere. Now, he belonged to no one, he belonged nowhere, and dammit, it made him angry!

Seven weeks of doing nothing but thinking, seven weeks of being utterly helpless, seven weeks of seeing the evidence of his worst failure, can take its toll on the most patient and gentle of men. Luke was not patient, and he did not think of himself of having any gentleness. He was growing more and more frustrated, and he longed for someone, anyone, to give him a reason to let go.

He wasn't strong enough to hold a gun (something else that frustrated him to no end), so shooting someone was out of the question. However, Luke always had a formidable temper, even when he was very young. And as Juliet Walker entered the house, her arms blessedly empty of Angela, she cast him a disdainful glance. Luke welcomed the rush of fury that such glances always brought him.

"What the hell do ya think yer lookin' at!" he barked, annoyed that his voice wasn't as harsh as it should have been. Juliet just favored him with another disgusted glance and turned away as she went into one of the other rooms. It happened every single time. She looked at him as though he was the lowest form of life on the planet, he called her on it, and she would walk away as if he weren't worth her time.

Not this time, dammit! Luke cringed as he called, "Dammit, turn around and look at me! You think you're so much better than me, well, time for you to prove it!" _Oh, that hurt_. He wasn't used to straining his voice like that. He received a second disgusted look as she came back through, which further infuriated him. Was it the disgust in her eyes, or the fact that he didn't seem to scare her?

_Are you in any condition to frighten her_, the reasonable part of him asked, _when you can barely lift your hand, much less shoot? She has no reason to be afraid of you, and she knows it._ Luke, however, didn't want to be reasonable. He wanted to lash out, he wanted to fill the empty space in his chest, he wanted someone else to hurt the way he was hurting right now.

Unfortunately, he never stopped to consider the consequences, not when a barely-remembered piece of information floated through his brain. He spat, "Ya ain't any better than me. Hell, at least I'm honest about what I am and what I ain't! Yer husband musta been glad to get away from ya, even if it did take dyin.' And. . ." He got no further, because Juliet spun around and slapped him so hard, Luke was sure she would leave a bruise. He had no time to think about that, however.

Because only a second later, Juliet was pointing his own gun in his face. She drew back the hammer and hissed, "If you ever mention my husband again, so help me God, I will blow your brains out, what few you have! You aren't fit to mention his name. Whatever else Bruce did wrong, he would have never shot a pregnant woman. . .much less a woman who put herself, and her people, at risk, to save him!"

Luke went cold at the mention of Neda. Juliet whispered, her eyes flashing with fury, "She should have left you to die on that mountain, because God knows, her life was worth a helluva lot more than yours! She took care of people, and you take lives! I knew. . .I _knew_, the day she brought you here that you would be trouble. And I was right. You got her killed! You and your stupidity, you and your carelessness!"

She was trembling, her hand shaking so badly, Luke was worried that she would shoot him anyhow. The trouble was, she was right. She was saying nothing he hadn't said to himself many times over the last seven weeks. She was saying the same words which lingered, unspoken, between them in that time. Luke swallowed hard, not even trying for a cocky smirk, as he replied hoarsely, "Well now, Missus Walker. . .looks like you and I actually agree on somethin.' Ya ain't tellin' me nothin' I don't already know."

She stared at him for a long time, then put the safety back on his gun, and put it back on the table where she found it. She stared at him a moment longer, then walked out of the house, still shaking. Luke sank back against his pillows once more, discovering much to his chagrin that Juliet wasn't the only one shaking. So was he. He pushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes, trying to regain control.

. . .

He wasn't the only one trying to regain control of runaway emotions. What just happened to her? Juliet stumbled from the house, trembling from head to toe. For weeks, as the mercenary gained in strength, he began needling her. She ignored him in the beginning, because if she reacted, she would just give him what he wanted. And above all else, she didn't want to do that. So what changed?

He brought up Bruce. He never did that before. Always in the past, he made his smart-ass remarks, but he never brought up her husband. Never before did he hit that vulnerable spot. She knew that Phaedra and Sophronia mentioned her husband and child to him, but until today, she thought he forgot about it. She remembered her own recovery, how she had blank spaces in her memory while she was healing.

God, what was she thinking. . .finding even a little common ground with him! _Oh, but you do have common ground_, whispered that annoying voice that made her utterly insane with frustration_, you have both killed. You're both strangers in this land. And he said himself that he blames himself for Neda's death. . .just as you do. You blame yourself just as much as you blame him._

That wasn't true. However, she couldn't fool herself, not for long. She could trick the mercenary into thinking she held only him responsible for her friend's death. But she knew better. He fired the shot that ultimately claimed Neda's life, but he wasn't the only one responsible. She blamed herself for not being braver, she blamed the mercenary, she blamed the damned Major, she blamed the soldiers, and if she was truly honest, she would admit that she also blamed the Teacher.

It was just. . .so much easier to blame the mercenary. He was trying to save Neda, the rational part of Juliet knew that. He was trying to save her and the baby. But that bastard separated them. Why didn't he just let Neda go? Because she was the Teacher's wife? Because she was young and beautiful? Because it stuck in his craw that an American got the better of him?

She was so lost in her thoughts, she never realized where she was walking until she found herself in front of the fresh grave that marked Neda's body. Juliet gave an anguished little whimper, falling to her knees beside her friend's grave. She ran her hand over the cross bearing Neda's name and whispered, "Help me, Neda. He brings out the worst in me without even trying. I only have to look at him, and. . ."

And her mind filled with carnal images that no well-bred lady was supposed to entertain. Carnal images that never crossed her mind while she was married to Bruce, much less when he was exercising his conjugal rights. Juliet rested her head on the cross, trying to block out those images. She told her friend's grave, "Sophronia and Phaedra tell me that I'm not committing a sin, by desiring him. That I'm not betraying you or my husband, or my Abigail. I'm not so sure, Neda."

She wiped at her tears half-heartedly, sighing, "And I am angry with him. He should have taken you with him. He. . .I know it wasn't practical. You were heavily pregnant, due any day, and. . . I KNOW! But I can't help the way I feel. You. . .you should be here with us, not lying in the ground. You should be nursing Angela, and watching her grow. You were my best friend, Neda, and I shouldn't be attracted to the man who killed you!"

"You were attracted to him long before I left this world, sister. . .why should that change now?" a soft voice asked. Juliet froze. She knew that voice. It was silent for two months now, but she was hearing it now. Slowly, oh so slowly, she raised her eyes. . .to find Neda smiling at her almost impishly. The smile widened, and Neda continued, "Did you truly think I would abandon those whom I love most?"

Juliet couldn't speak. Couldn't seem to find her voice, and Neda went on, "I have watched you, all this time. I have felt your grief and guilt, just as I have felt Luke's. I have watched you struggle between fury and logic. Your mind tells you that I would not have survived my daughter's birth for much longer, no matter what happened. If Luke took me with him, as my husband's father requested, I would have died on the journey. If he did not come back for me, the soldiers would have killed me. And even if his shot did not strike me, I would have died. It was my fate, dearest Juliet."

The American woman was already shaking her head. No, she couldn't accept that! She would never accept that, she didn't believe in fate. Neda continued, ignoring Juliet's fierce denial, "Meanwhile, your heart refuses to forgive. You cannot forgive yourself, and so, you cannot forgive Luke. You cannot allow yourself to see. . .cannot allow yourself to lower your defenses, because if you do. . ."

"It will destroy me. I will not allow him to hurt me, Neda. He won't hurt me, he won't let me down, he won't disappoint me, because I won't let him!" Juliet hissed. Neda just looked at her, almost sadly. And that made a queer sort of sense. Neda had faith in him. Juliet didn't. Juliet couldn't. Trust was earned, as was loyalty, as was respect, and he had no interest in any of those three.

"He is not your husband, Juliet. He has more honor than your husband did, though he fought for gold. What is his, he protects, with his dying breath if necessary. You did not see him claim me before the soldiers, before the Major, but he did. He will claim you, if you give him the chance. . .or is that what frightens you? Being claimed? Your husband never claimed you. He didn't fight for you," Neda replied.

Juliet looked away, trying desperately to shut out her friend's words. She didn't want to hear this. She was a woman of the enlightened twentieth century. She didn't believe in this idea of claiming or being claimed! It was something out of the Dark Ages! Unfortunately, Neda wasn't finished. She went on calmly, inexorably, "He will claim you, when he is certain he can trust you. And you have already claimed him."

Juliet's head jerked back around at this comment, and Neda smiled faintly. She continued, "You have already claimed him. You claimed him the moment you picked up that rifle and fired it to save his life. You can fool him, and yourself, into thinking you did it for me. But you cannot fool me. You cannot lie to the dead, Juliet, because we see what the living deny to themselves."

She wasn't listening to this, she wasn't hearing this! Juliet resolutely closed her eyes, whispering, "This isn't happening to me, I am not attracted to the mercenary, the very sight of him fills me with loathing. . .he is the same kind of man who killed my husband and my child." It was becoming a mantra. Juliet looked up, tears rolling down her face, to see Neda staring at her compassionately. She whispered, "I miss you."

"Juliet, you will never be without me! I will always be there, whenever you need me! Take care of Luke for me. . .take care of Angela. I always admired you, because I did not know how I would have survived if I lost my husband and child. You are stronger and braver than I, Juliet. . . do not let fear defeat you now, my friend. You have too much to give," Neda's ghost replied. She smiled and leaned forward, as if to kiss Juliet's forehead, then faded away. Exhausted and unable to face anyone right now, Juliet lowered her head and began to weep softly.

. . .

Foolish children! Why they did this to themselves and each other, Sophronia didn't know. Yes, she did. They were both lost in their own grief and guilt. . .and in the case of the young mercenary, despair. They needed each other, as much as Angela needed them both. On the other hand, now that they had things out in the open, perhaps Luke would heal faster, and another part of the battle would be won.

Juliet began healing during that confrontation. For three years, she buried her grief, anger, guilt and despair. Buried it deep within her soul. In just seven weeks, Luke managed to shatter the walls she built around herself. He challenged her, angered her. Something no one else accomplished in the time she lived among them. The reminder was enough to make Sophronia laugh aloud.

Of course, how silly of her! The confrontation, as exhausting as it was for them both, was also necessary. It was lancing a boil, draining a sore. Releasing some of the poison which slowly killed Juliet from the inside out. Sophronia knew that Juliet still held some of that poison in her soul. But some of it was released. The midwife and healer gazed out the window at the weeping young woman, and despite what she came to understand during the last few minutes, still found a lump in her throat.

Juliet was weeping at Neda's grave. Luke did the same when they brought him out here. He was gently lowered to the ground by the women who guided him out. He reached out a trembling hand to the cross, then began weeping quietly. Phaedra, who in some ways had the tenderest heart of all, knelt beside him and stroked his hair while he mourned. There was a connection between the pair, between Luke and Neda. Sophronia saw in the moments right after Angela's birth.

Neda had looked over at the mercenary and smiled. He returned her smile, and in a way, it was a smile between two parents. Luke was not the baby's father, the Teacher was. . .but he kept the soldiers away from Neda while she gave birth. He had a hand in her life, in her survival, though not her creation. And he would shape the rest of her life. Sophronia hoped Luke learned some wisdom in the time ahead.

He was not a bad man, and in some ways, he was not a man at all, but a boy in a man's body. He was impulsive, hot-tempered, stubborn, sometimes callous. His trigger finger usually moved more rapidly than his mind did. But he was not a bad man. He could learn from his mistakes. They knew that. . .they learned that when he returned. Two problems remained. . .convincing Luke and convincing Juliet.

It would be a long time before she forgave him for mentioning her dead husband. Sophronia frowned thoughtfully, then went into check on Luke, who was calmer now. He was lying back against his pillows, a puzzled frown on his face. He looked up as she entered, and asked in Greek, "Where did I hear that Missus Walker's husband was dead? I. . .remember it, but I don't remember how I remember."

In the same language, Sophronia replied, "We told you while you were recovering. You have blank spaces in your mind, which is why you remember little. We told you that Juliet's husband was murdered by mercenaries working against the Teacher. He was beheaded while she watched." As she spoke, she was watching Luke's face. He was frowning, and Sophronia went on, "After they murdered him, they used her as their plaything. She was pregnant at the time."

Now Luke was ashen as her words sank in. A plaything, just as Neda would have been. He closed his eyes, but not before Sophronia saw the horror in them. His face turned a greenish tint, and reacting quickly, Sophronia pulled out a basin for him. Luke threw up what little he ate that day, his body shuddering. Sophronia wanted to comfort him, but both hands were required to hold the basin. At last, he finished and collapsed back against his bed, moaning a little. Sophronia patted his arm, then walked outside to empty the basin. She put it in a safe place, away from the dogs, and would wash it later.

Back inside, she sat down beside the still-shaken man. Putting a gentle, wrinkled hand on his bare forearm, she murmured, "You must not blame yourself. That was three years ago, and before you arrived in Macedonia. It was even a different group of mercenaries. Shhhh." Luke made no answer, aside from an occasional moan or gasp. It took her a few moments to realize he was weeping.

The mother in Sophronia longed to comfort, but sensed that that was the last thing he needed right now. Instead, she stroked his hair, saying softly, "That is the first time in three years I have seen Juliet become angry. For three years, she has been a quiet ghost, a shadow with a gentle, sad smile. We have feared for her. But you. . .you have set her free. You have done two very good things here, Luke."

The blue eyes focused on her, reflecting confusion, and Sophronia continued, "It will be a long road back for you both. You have many hurts, the two of you. But now I know why Neda fought so hard to save your soul. . .because she knew you could set Juliet free. Sometimes, she goes to her daughter's grave and merely sits there. Today is the first time I have seen her angry. . .the first time I have seen her weep."

"Why do you keep sayin' that? I ain't a good man, why don't any of you understand that? I kill for gold and money, I use prostitutes, I run out on people who need me. . .I ain't a good man, I ain't a hero!" Luke cried out. There was no self-pity in his voice, only truth as he understood it. That was whom Luke was, and he was making no apology for it. . .but he didn't have the entire picture, as Juliet would say.

"I see things you do not, child. I saw the gentleness when you placed your hand on Neda's belly. I saw your horror when you realized your bullet pierced her body as well as that bastard's. I saw your smile when Angela was born. I saw the true man. I have seen your true face, Luke, and I know what you are. You say that you are no hero, and perhaps not a hero as you understand it. But because of you, my village fought back. That is a third good thing you have done," Sophronia replied.

She brushed away a stray tear trickling down his face, and leaned forward to kiss his forehead. Without really thinking about it, he burrowed against her, resting his head against her shoulder and Sophronia smiled to herself. Yes, a lost child seeking his mother. She whispered into the wheat-colored hair, "You can be so much more than you are, Luke. You can be the man whom Neda believed you could be."

"Why?" came the broken cry, "Why should I?" Sophronia didn't question what he meant. Why should he become more? Why should he try? Unfortunately, she didn't have the answer, not one that would set him on the same path he placed Juliet upon, however unwittingly. Because she didn't know what was worth the risk to him, and he understood, however dimly, that becoming that man required a risk.

"Because the man who raises Angela will need to be strong," Sophronia answered softly, once she thought of something that would make sense to him, "because you owe it to Neda to raise her daughter like that. Not because she saved your life, but because you cared for her. Because you cannot go back to what you were, Luke, no matter how hard you try. Because if you do this, that awful, gaping emptiness in your heart will be filled."

She felt him stiffen in her arms, but he didn't pull away. Already, the boy was learning. Instead, he replied, "I'm afraid. I don't like being afraid. I hate feelin' like this. I hate bein' weak. I hate bein' afraid. I hate bein' unsure." His words were muffled, but they struck at Sophronia's very heart. She gently released him, allowing to lay back against his pillow.

He looked so tired. Setting someone free was not an easy job. And Juliet would not thank him, in all likelihood, not for a long time. Sophronia said softly, "I know, little one." She ignored his indignant stare, continuing, "But you are not weak. You are merely finding a new strength, a new courage. You do not need to change, Luke, do not need to change yourself. Only. . .become more. It is not impossible. Difficult? Yes. But not impossible. You can do it. You do care for others. I know this."

She touched his face again, smiling tenderly, and said, "Sleep now. I must see to Juliet. In another three weeks time, I believe you will be ready to leave. Now that you have both spoken of that which troubles you, you will heal much faster. And you are a little one to me. . .you are but a child in my eyes. Now rest." Obediently, the blue eyes closed, and within moments, he was asleep. Sophronia watched him for several moments, thinking about how deceptive appearances could be. The man could look like a deadly gunman or an innocent angel. Which was true?

. . .

Over the next three weeks, the villagers watched as both Americans continued their respective recoveries. It was a known fact that Juliet never allowed herself to mourn for her husband and daughter. . .not until the day the mercenary angered her. That day, she struck back at him with all of her strength. That day, she wept at Neda's grave, three years of anguish finally given an outlet.

It was also known that the Americans avoided each other. Luke, in particular, was careful about leaving Juliet alone. No one mentioned it to him. No one even thought less of him. Indeed, he was well regarded because of it. There was certainly no shame in leaving a woman alone, after saying cruel things to her. On the contrary. . .much to his surprise, Luke found himself being placed higher in the regard of the villagers.

For her own part, Juliet was avoided Luke out of shame. She couldn't believe she slapped him, much less threatened him with his own gun! All right, he deserved it. . . definitely deserved the slap. But she was raised better than that! Raised better than to wave a gun in someone's face, particularly the person's own gun. . .raised better than a lot of the things she had done over the last three years.

Her father would have never approved of her picking up a rifle, for any reason. She was a civilized woman, the daughter of privilege. She was better than that. And he would have never understood her drive to save the life of a mercenary. On this, Juliet could no longer lie to herself. . .Neda saw to that. She didn't save Luke because of Neda, or any other such altruistic reason.

She didn't know why. She didn't know why she couldn't let him die. That still left her confused, and she didn't know how to figure out the answers. Was she taking revenge for the deaths of her husband and child? It wasn't soldiers who murdered Bruce and violated Juliet. It was mercenaries, and yet she saved the life of a mercenary. One from a different gang, but a mercenary nonetheless.

Was she taking revenge for Neda, for the Teacher, and other villagers who had been kind to her, who died at the hands of the soldiers? It was possible. She didn't know. For three years, she brutally suppressed any rage or hatred. She needed that strength to put herself back together again. She didn't allow herself to be angry. . .but she also didn't allow herself to grieve.

Did she save him because of her own attraction to him? Because even as she loathed everything he stood for, she was enchanted by his beauty? How many times did she watch him during his recovery and long to see his smile? He smiled almost never, not a real smile, and one time while she watched him, Juliet was horrified to see a single tear trickle down his face.

Juliet closed her eyes, remembering the first time she saw the mercenary. He was carried into the village, unconscious, in the back of a wagon. The Teacher's father and a few other men went with Neda when she told them about what she found. When they returned to the village, the mercenary was cradled against Neda's body and Juliet immediately ran to the wagon to see if she could help.

His shirt was covered with blood, his face ashen under the scruff. He was the exact opposite of Bruce in every way imaginable. His hair was the color of wheat, but a closer look told Juliet that it was once red. Bruce had dark hair, like her own. Bruce was clean-shaven, always impeccably dressed, as befitted a gentleman. He was polite and generous, and twenty year old Juliet Patterson thought he was what she was supposed to love, and so she did.

But the twenty-eight year old widow who helped to carry the unconscious mercenary saw that this man was the polar opposite of her late husband. He was rough, a gunfighter, a mercenary. But he took Juliet's breath away. She would often find ways to sneak into the sickroom while Sophronia was away or Neda was washing out bandages, and sit beside him. . .just stare at his still face.

They said that a person's true face was revealed an hour after their death, and Juliet wondered sometimes if the same was true of sleep. In the first few days after he was brought to the village, his face was often tight with pain and distress, and it was difficult to soothe him. He was frightened and in pain, and tended to call out in English, rather than Greek. Juliet was often asked to interpret. Neda knew English, but it wasn't her first language.

Most of what he cried out were names. She knew now that Elijah was his younger brother. She saw him right after the last gunfight against the Major and his men. Saw him and didn't like him. He wanted to take Angela back with him to the United States, but Juliet quickly disabused him of that notion. Especially after she heard that he shot his own brother.

Strange, wasn't it? That she held onto her hatred and rage toward the mercenary for his accidental shooting of Neda during his rescue attempt. . .and held almost as much hatred toward his brother Elijah, for his quite intentional shooting. Was it because she couldn't comprehend that kind of hatred between siblings? She and Drusilla held onto each other through the years after the loss of their mother.

Or was it because Elijah admitted that he wanted revenge on his brother Luke because his wife Lilith killed herself while carrying a child? He didn't know if the child was his or Luke's, because she wanted both brothers and both brothers wanted her. She didn't make that decision before she got married? And for that matter, why was it Luke's fault that Lilith killed herself? Did she kill herself because she was pregnant and didn't know whose child she carried? Did she kill herself because Luke wasn't there?

Juliet couldn't understand Lilith, no matter how hard she tried. And she didn't like Elijah, either. . .he swung back and forth between begging his brother's forgiveness and blaming Luke for making him shoot him. 'He was supposed to be my keeper.' Again, this wasn't something that Juliet could understand. Yes, she was protective of her younger sister. . .she was several years older than Drusilla, after all.

But Drusilla was known to be just as protective of Juliet. They took care of each other, they looked out for each other. That was what sisters did. Drusilla took Bruce aside after it was announced that Juliet would accompany Bruce to Macedonia, and Juliet didn't see her sister or her husband for a good two hours. After they finally emerged, Drusilla looked rather triumphant and Bruce looked just as pale.

When Juliet asked her little sister what they talked about, Drusilla merely answered airily, 'just making sure we understand each other. I told him that I wouldn't be in Macedonia to look after you, so he had to do it for me. And if anything happened to you while you were there, I would kill him. Slowly. I'm planning to study medicine. . .I know ways of doing that."

So. . .no. She didn't understand Elijah either. During her confrontation with Luke, Juliet thought a great deal about Elijah and Luke. She came to the painful conclusion that while Luke was a mercenary and she couldn't forget that, he was also honest about himself and what he was, what he wasn't. Elijah hid behind excuses. The day she found common ground or sympathy for a mercenary was one she didn't believe would ever happen.

On the other hand, she was no longer the same Juliet Patterson Walker who arrived here nearly four years ago. No one could remain the same after seeing and experiencing what she did. No. No, she was no longer Bruce Walker's wife. . .nor was she Sydney Patterson's daughter. Of that last, she had no doubt. Her father was always disappointed that he had only daughters, and he would not like the changes in his eldest daughter, the changes brought about by necessity.

Necessity? Yes. She changed because it was necessary for her to survive. She changed because she saw more than she ever dreamed possible. Juliet closed her eyes, remembering the day Neda died. She never allowed herself to think about that before. She couldn't think about that. Not until now. Not until the fury was released. Now she could remember. . .now she relive it.

She was sitting not far from Phaedra when the figure appeared. Juliet closed her eyes, remembering, focusing. She wasn't looking at Phaedra, or even Neda, at the time. She was looking into the distance, trying to summon her courage. . .trying to decide on a plan of action. Then Phaedra reached over and touched her hand, whispering in Greek, "_He has come_!" Juliet had looked up, and her breath caught in her throat, seeing the blond mercenary. He was here. . .he came back.

The Major greeted him, telling him that they were discussing what to do when the baby came. Juliet shuddered, and Phaedra's grip on her hand tightened. The Macedonian woman leaned over and whispered, "_Go. The soldiers and the Major are not paying attention to us. Only to the mercenary. We will make our stand_." Phaedra's head jerked back at a sound coming from the table. A slow smile crossed her face and she murmured, "_Very clever, mercenary. . . very clever indeed! Go now_!"

Juliet rose to her feet, keeping a guarded eye on the table, but Phaedra was right. The mercenary was successful in diverting attention away from himself and Neda. Juliet whispered the message to the others, wary as always of getting a bullet in the back. And then. . . She turned around, to see the mercenary striding away with Neda. Ice zapped down her spine. _The time had come_.

From her angle, Juliet could see Neda behind a soldier, though she couldn't see which one. And there was no time to cry out a warning to the mercenary. . .if he shot the soldier, he would shoot Neda as well. The gun barked once and the soldier fell. As he crumpled to the ground, all could see Neda against the wall, sinking slowly to the ground. She began to scream, and Juliet's eyes cut to the mercenary.

He was staring at her in horrified silence, then his eyes narrowed and he began shooting every soldier he could see. One of the first soldiers to fall, Phaedra rolled to one side and picked up his rifle. She aimed it at the remaining soldiers and began pulling the trigger. Sophronia and her husband ran to Neda and Juliet was torn between seeing to her friend and dealing with the soldiers.

Her decision was made as more of the villagers picked up guns. She would stand with them. Juliet ran into the house which used to belong to the Teacher and found his rifle. She loaded it with an ease that would have horrified her five years earlier. The Teacher insisted that she know how to load, clean, and fire a weapon. He told her there might come a time when she would need to know such things.

As she bolted out of the house, a baby's cry reached her ears. The child was safely delivered. Juliet saw the mercenary's head turn toward the cry. . .he was swaying on his feet, obviously exhausted. He was paying attention to Neda. . .that much she could see, though she couldn't see his face. She couldn't see his face. . .but she could see the soldier pointing his rifle at the mercenary.

Even now, weeks later, Juliet still could not remember lifting the rifle up or settling it against her shoulder. Nor could she remember aiming at the soldier. One moment, she saw the soldier. . . and the next, the rifle was kicking against her shoulder. She pulled the trigger more than once. It wasn't necessary. But she kept firing until the man was down and the threat removed.

Was it true? In the moment she raised that rifle to defend the mercenary, did she claim him? Juliet didn't know. She remembered, vaguely, finding out before the soldiers came that the mercenary's name was 'Luke.' A name from the Bible. . .wasn't he a physician of some kind, or was she getting him confused with someone else? She supposed she could have asked Elijah while he was here. . .but she spent too much time controlling her desire to punch him.

Luke. It meant 'light.' Was there a time when he was innocent and kind? He didn't seem to be a man who took pleasure in the pain of others. He wasn't like the Major. Perhaps he wasn't good or good-hearted, but Juliet's time in Macedonia taught her that people were rarely pure light or pure dark. Rather, during his time in the village, Juliet observed the mercenary. He seemed to be a man ferociously protective of those whom he called his own.

Bruce was considered a kind man, but he considered himself above fighting. He would do nothing to defend that which was his. Juliet closed her eyes, reminding herself not to speak ill of the dead. _Not even when it's true_, a mocking voice asked, one that sounded suspiciously like the Teacher, _he was still alive when the mercenaries first started talking about taking you. . .and he did nothing. Did that prevent them from killing him? Not at all. . .that is why they killed him, because he would not defend himself or you. They deemed him unworthy to live_.

Juliet closed her eyes, fighting back sobs. She was angry with the Teacher for telling her that, after Abigail was buried. She hated him for saying that her husband could have prevented it all by defending her. And she hated having these thoughts. The mercenary would have protected her, would have defended her, Phaedra and Sophronia both told her. . .if she was his, he would have defended her.

_Did I claim him? Did he claim Neda? Would he claim me_? Juliet pushed herself off the wall where she spent the last fifteen minutes and headed determinedly for the house where the mercenary spent the last few months recovering. He was able to walk now, taking solid food for several weeks, and he started shooting once more to get back into practice. They needed to talk.

Right now, he was in bed, asleep. And he wasn't alone. . .Angela was asleep atop his chest, one large hand covering her tiny back protectively. Juliet stopped dead in her tracks at this unexpected sight. What shocked her more. . .the tenderness of the scene or how innocent and peaceful the mercenary looked while he was asleep? Juliet knew that Angela was somewhat fussy about who held her.

Juliet was one of the few whom Angela would allow to hold her, and the young woman tiptoed forward. She picked up the baby, careful not to wake her. She wasn't quite successful. . . Angela's eyes opened briefly, regarded Juliet sleepily, then closed once more, satisfied that all was well. Sophronia, who evidently heard Juliet's determined footsteps, appeared to take Angela.

She was smiling a mysterious sort of smile, one that Juliet pointedly ignored. Bossy old woman. However, there was only affection and gratitude in the smile Juliet gave the old woman. Sophronia swept out of the room and Juliet turned her attention to the mercenary. . .to Luke. 'Luke, child. . .his name is Luke,' Sophronia told her on more than one occasion.

Juliet cleared her throat, then reached out tentatively. Her hand didn't get far, though. She found her wrist imprisoned in a grip far stronger than it looked. Startled, not just at the response but at the sensations shooting through her body at the unexpected touch, her eyes flew to the mercenary's. He was awake. . .or at least, his eyes were open. And those blue eyes were regarding her with some confusion.

She said the first thing that popped into her head, "Sophronia has Angela." The mercenary nodded warily, and Juliet continued, "I. . .I came to apologize. I should have never pulled that gun on you a few weeks ago." She stopped, wondering if she should apologize for slapping him as well. She really wasn't sorry for doing that. . .she still thought he deserved it.

He agreed, saying in a hoarse voice, "Apology accepted. . .though not for slappin' me. I deserved that." Now it was Juliet's turn to stare at him in surprise. Unexpectedly, he flushed, saying, "What? You don't think I can be reasonable? Hell, I'll be the first to admit that I've got a temper. . .and that I'm a bastard. In more ways 'n one. But I ain't stupid. You had every right to slap me for sayin' that."

"Yes, well. . .apology accepted," Juliet replied. He didn't exactly apologize, but at the same time, he did. A silence fell between them. Neither could hold the other's eyes for more than a few moments. At last, frustrated, Juliet heaved a sigh and said, "I came to talk to you. I'm not entirely sure if we can hold a civilized conversation, but I'm willing to try. . .if you are."

At that, he gave a smirk and replied, "Civilized? Now where's the fun in that?" Against her will, Juliet laughed outright, and the mercenary smiled suddenly. She had never seen him smile, and it quite took her breath away. His blue eyes twinkled with laughter, and he continued, growing serious once more, "But you're right. We do need to talk. . .and I'm willin' to try."

"Yes," Juliet answered, nodding, "We do need to talk." The mercenary motioned for her to sit down, rolling his eyes when she pulled over a chair. Juliet said quietly, "I am not afraid of you, if that's what you're thinking. But I do think it's best if we both kept our distance. We'll be spending a great deal of time together once we leave with Angela, after all."

"You really ain't," he said in wonder, "you ain't afraid of me. Neda wasn't afraid of me, neither. Neither was Lilith." Now she heard the pain in his voice, and without wanting it to, her heart went out to him. He looked at her once more, his blue eyes very direct as he asked, "What is it that you're wantin' from me?" Well, he certainly didn't waste much time! Still, she could appreciate that.

"Just one thing. Your promise," Juliet replied quietly. The shoulders went up and back at that, the mercenary's eyes reflecting a physical pain at the movement. She smiled faintly, saying, "It's not a hard promise. You may do whatever you like once we reach the States. . .the only thing I ask is that you remain with Angela and me until our ship arrives in American waters."

"Agreed," he answered without hesitation, then requested, "But I got somethin' I want in return." Juliet nodded and he continued, "We travel under a different name. Elijah thinks I'm dead. . .that ain't gonna last. And a blond American is gonna be real obvious around here. If we travel under a different name, he has less of a chance of findin' us and finishin' what we start. The other thing. . .while we're on the road, you gotta do what I say."

"Agreed," Juliet answered. He relaxed a little, and Juliet was pained to see how much even this exhausted him. She lowered her eyes, then said, "If I give us a name under which to travel, will you tell me yours? Your real name, I mean." She was asking him to trust her. His eyes flickered away, and Juliet said softly, "Listen to me. Regardless of what I said earlier, I did save your life. I won't allow that to go to waste, and I won't betray you. I owe Neda, just as you do."

With half a smile, he turned his full attention back to her and said, "Looks like I was real wrong, 'bout your husband. If he had any sense, he woulda stayed alive. Lord knows, if I had a woman like you, I'd never let her go and thank God every day for putting you on this earth." What? Juliet stared in shock. He smiled sadly, adding, "Sorry. My ma told me that's something my real pa told her once."

_I'm a bastard. . .in more ways than one_. She released her breath, understanding. The mercenary continued, "I'll tell you my name. . .the one I was given at birth. But it ain't my true name. Don't know what my pa's name was. . .my real pa, at least. Ma never told me his name. Think she wanted to protect me. My name is Luke. Luke Richmond." Luke Richmond. Juliet nodded. If she hadn't claimed him before, she did now. So long as they traveled together, Luke was just as much under her protection as she and Angela were under his.

Their lives depended on it.


	4. Acts of Faith

Calling the Wind

Chapter Three

Acts of Faith

Edge listened intently as they neared the village where the entire story began, then said, "So, Luke was illegitimate, and they used an assumed name on their way back to the States? I guess that makes sense. He didn't trust Elijah any more. . .not that I can blame him. And you know about Juliet from her journal entries." Amy nodded, drawing the car to a halt at a crossroads.

"Yeah, she held nothing back in her journal after her confrontation with Luke. She admitted outright just how attracted she was to him, and how badly that scared her. She also mentioned her annoyance with Elijah. . .she considered him a self-centered child. I can kind of relate. . .I'm an only child, but I grew up under my grandmother's roof. My cousins became my brothers and sisters, and we took care of each other, regardless of our age," Amy answered as the car began rolling forward once more.

She paused, then said quietly, "There." Edge looked away from her as she drew the car to a final stop. It was like stepping back in history. There were power lines and telephone lines, but he imagined that very little changed here in the last ninety-some years. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see Luke on the porch of a house, looking at the world with more than a little bewilderment and fear.

"C'mon. I'll take you to Neda's grave," Amy told him. She spoke in a foreign language to a woman they passed on the street, and the old lady answered with a surprised smile. Amy told the confused Edge, "That was Sophronia's great-granddaughter. She hasn't seen me since I was about fifteen. Gramma Faye brought me here shortly after the Berlin Wall fell, back in '89."

"Did people recognize her?" Edge asked, walking alongside his new friend, the urn tucked under his arm. Amy grinned as someone else passed and spoke to her. Something else occurred to him, then he asked, "Did people recognize you? I mean, you are Luke's great-granddaughter." Then there was no more time for talk, because they arrived at the old cemetary.

Amy carefully picked her way across the rows, before coming to a small, simple stone. It was in two languages, fortunately for Edge. He murmured, "Neda, beloved wife, mother, daughter, sister and friend. 1882-1903. God, she was just a kid when she died. Who paid for the stone? You told me that her grave was originally marked by a wooden cross. . .someone had to pay for the stone."

"Do you really need to ask?" Amy asked with a wry grin, "It was my grandmother, of course. She and her sisters pooled their money. . .their brother was dead by this time, and they paid for a nice stone for Neda. You asked if anyone recognized Gramma Faye. . .the answer is yes. I did tell you that she was her father's daughter, in more ways than one."

Yes, she did, and. . .what the hell? Edge scooted over a little, frowning in surprise. Amy said softly, "They kept up the pretense of Luke's death, long after Luke and Juliet left for the United States. Now. . .it really doesn't matter, except to the old people." Edge nodded, his heart in his throat. 'Luke Richmond, born 1873, died 1903. A hero.' Amy went on, "I guess it's appropriate, because in a way, Luke did die here."

Death and rebirth seemed a constant theme in the story of Luke Richmond/Hurst, and he said so. Amy grinned, replying, "Yeah, I guess you could say that. My second oldest cousin, Diana, has her Master's degree in comparative religions, with a particular interest in the making of heroes. She says that Luke is the archetype of a hero, complete with the three female guides. One woman sets the hero out on his quest. . .that would be Lilith. Another helps him to fulfill that quest. . .Neda. And the third woman is the culmination of his quest. . .Juliet."

Edge looked at her, saying, "That's bullshit." Amy threw back her head and laughed, and he continued doggedly, "It IS! The man was a cool cat, yeah, but he ain't no archetypical hero, or whatever that bullshit is. Hell, your cousin makes him sound like he was one of King Arthur's Knights!" Amy stopped laughing and looked at him directly, her blue eyes briefly obscured by her windblown blonde hair.

"Edge," she said gently, "How do you think most of the Knights started in the medieval time period? Or even before? It wasn't all beauty and romance and chivalry. Many knights started out just as my great-grandfather. . .mercenaries, until someone gave them something to fight for, whether it was honor, freedom or love. Luke is my great-grandfather, and I do not idolize him. I love him too much to do that. But Diana has a point. Besides. If Luke can become a Knight. . . that's hope for the rest of us."

"Guess I hadn't thought of that," Edge murmured as he ran his fingers along the top of the stone. The truth was, he should have thought of it himself. Angela's telling of Luke's story changed his life. . .it changed him. He could see himself in Luke, and that started the change. If Luke grew up during this time, he would have been a smart-ass street kid. . .maybe became a protector? Maybe not?

Amy murmured, kneeling beside the stone bearing her great-grandfather's name, "They left here more than three months after Angela's birth. Sophronia made a special sling for Angela, a makeshift cradle for Juliet to wear across her chest. Since Luke and Juliet were on horseback, it made it far easier for them to travel with a baby. In the weeks before they departed, Luke and Juliet agreed to carry only supplies with them. . ."

"All is ready, child."

Juliet turned to face Sophronia, who had packed the saddlebags with necessities for the baby. Juliet only just reached the point where she called her traveling companion by his name, rather than calling him 'the mercenary.' They weren't comfortable with each other, and it was likely to take a long time before they were. Still, there was an uneasy truce between them.

Juliet smiled at the old woman gratefully, saying, "Thank you, old mother. I will carry out the bags. . .th. . .Luke is still recovering his strength. I would stay longer, but I don't want us placing you in any further danger." She picked up the saddlebag and almost dropped it. She made a face, then attempted the venture once more. This time, she was able to hold the supply bag.

"You worry too much for other people, child. . .do you never worry for yourself?" Sophronia asked. Juliet responded with a cheeky grin and Sophronia glared at her playfully. The old woman grumped, though her eyes twinkled, "Foolish child."

Juliet laughed outright at that, startling herself. It was so long since she laughed, genuinely laughed. She forgot what it felt like. It felt good.

"Yes, old mother, but you love me nonetheless," Juliet teased. Sophronia rolled her eyes, and Juliet just laughed again. For some reason, it was easier to laugh now. The tightness in her chest eased, not just when she was around the children. Maybe Phaedra was right and her confrontation with th. . .with Luke helped to clear things up for her. And maybe Angela had something to do with it as well.

Phaedra. The young Macedonian woman was never one of her friends. . .she kept out of Juliet's way, and Juliet kept out of her way during Juliet's three years in the village. At least, until Neda's death. Perhaps that was the trigger. They needed each other. They both took up rifles to protect their friends, the people they loved. They both loved Neda. And they both needed to put the pieces of themselves back together.

It seemed that Neda's death was a catalyst on many fronts. Still, between her friend's life and her ability to laugh, Juliet would have gladly sacrificed the latter to save Neda. She told Phaedra that once. The other young woman was silent for a long time, then replied quietly, "As would I. But Fate decreed this, and Fate cannot be denied. No matter how much we wish it."

In other words, 'I feel the same, but it won't happen, so just keep moving forward.' Juliet could respect that. She smiled at Sophronia once more, then carried the bag out to the waiting horse. There were two: the mer. . .Luke's own horse, and a horse that belonged to one of the Teacher's men. Something else she learned while she was here in Macedonia. . .how to ride.

She learned the basics while she was still a girl, but the men taught her how to guide the horse with her legs. That would be helpful during this journey. She and the mer. . .she and Luke were still ironing out the route. She agreed that they should travel by moon light and rest by day, but they still hadn't agreed if they should try for the southern sea, or return to Paris and get passage that way.

Juliet couldn't explain it, but she had a bad feeling about taking that route. The best she could do was tell her traveling companion, 'I think that anyone who doubts your death would be watching for us to do just that.' He started to protest, then fell silent, his blue eyes narrowing as he considered her words. He still hadn't agreed, but he also hadn't dismissed her ideas out of hand.

He was saddling his own horse now, and said, with a nod toward the saddle bags that Juliet carried, "Lemme have those, and I'll take care a' the rest." The words were brusque, as his words often were, but he was trying to be nice. Or expedite matters. . .if she tried to put those things on, it would likely take half the day. Juliet was a practical woman. . .proud, yes, but practical.

So she relinquished the bags, saying, "Thank you. . .but please be careful. Don't hurt yourself again." He looked at her sharply, his eyes searching her expression. Did he think she was being sarcastic? It was hard to say. She didn't know how his mind worked. For now, it was enough to know that he did think some things through, and didn't just react. There was such a thing as thinking too much (she should know, she was quite guilty of this particular fault), but her new companion could use a little more thinking, and a little less reaction.

Phaedra approached as he began saddling her horse, carrying Angela. The other young woman searched Juliet's face, then smiled hesitantly. Juliet smiled back, just as hesitantly. So strange, that two women could live in the same village, working alongside each other for three years, and only become friends in the last three months of their association. Phaedra awkwardly embraced her, still holding Angela, and Juliet returned the embrace. They pulled back, and Phaedra shifted Angela into Juliet's arms, saying in her native language, "Be well, Juliet. And take care of them."

"I shall. Take care of them for me. . .take care of them all. And Neda's grave, too," Juliet answered, looking around the village. She returned her gaze to Phaedra and added, "If I can, when I return to the United States, I will send word." How she would do that, she had no idea. . .there were no telegraphs, telegrams, much less telephones. For that matter, she didn't even know how they received mail. . .

Phaedra, however, had a solution. She said softly, "I have an aunt who lives in the city. I will give you her name and address, and she will see to it that I receive it. Be well, my friend!" She embraced Juliet, then walked off. Juliet watched her go, saw her hand go to her face, and realized that Phaedra was wiping away tears. Angela's tiny hand patted her cheek and Juliet looked at the child, then discovered her own cheeks were wet.

She kissed Angela's tiny forehead, murmuring, "I am supposed to take care of you, little one, not the other way around. Or are you becoming like your mother already, hmm?" Somehow, that thought gave her comfort. . .Neda lived on in this child. Neda and the Teacher. Juliet looked up with a smile as Sophronia approached with the sling that would allow Juliet to carry Angela and ride.

It was designed to cushion not just Angela, but Juliet, if it became necessary to gallop. By all rights, they should not have been traveling with a three month old child. But time was running out, and if they remained here. . .well, their chances of survival decreased. Juliet eased the child into the sling. Once Juliet was on the horse, whom she named Justinian after the great Emperor, Sophronia would pass the baby up to her.

First, however, Sophronia embraced her fiercely, whispering, "You will never be forgotten by us, little one. Be well, be safe, and take care of them both." Second time today she was told that, but Sophronia was called 'old mother' for a reason, and not just because she was a midwife. She was the wisewoman of the village. The old woman pulled back, her dark eyes misty as she lightly kissed first Juliet's, then Angela's cheeks.

Juliet walked over to Justinian, who stood patiently, and swung up. Not as gracefully as others. . .but she was in the saddle. Sophronia passed the baby up to her, and Juliet secured Angela, making faces at her as she did. She kept her head ducked as Sophronia approached Luke, but watched silently. The old woman put her hand gently on his forearm and he turned, his wariness apparent even to Juliet.

The young woman couldn't hear what Sophronia said. . .but she did see the old woman reach up, cup his face in her hands, and rock onto her tiptoes to lightly kiss his forehead. Luke's expression was one of surprise and awe. Then Sophronia wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him as fiercely as only Sophronia could. Luke stared down at her gray head for a moment, a bemused expression on his face. Then, very slowly, very awkwardly, he put his arms around her and patted her back, clearly having no idea how to react to this show of affection.

Neda's voice came back to her, during one of their discussions after Luke was first found, "I do not believe someone has taken care of him for a long time. He is so terribly lonely, and does not even know it. He reminds me of you, Juliet. . .he cannot respond to affection, for he has experienced little of it." It looked like Neda was right. Again. As usual. Unfortunately, that meant Juliet was in for a very interesting journey.

Phaedra went inside her home to dry her tears and to find her aunt's address for Juliet. However, that didn't meant she missed seeing Sophronia embrace the blond American mercenary. She saw it. . .and his confused expression. Phaedra swallowed the lump in her throat, wondering when the last time someone held him. . .aside from Neda. For the first time, she began to see just what kind of journey awaited her new friend Juliet. Much was said about Luke earning Juliet's trust, but now Phaedra understood that Juliet would need to win Luke's trust as well.

What sort of life did this man have, that he had no idea how to accept affection? Unlike her new American friend, Phaedra never blamed Luke for Neda's death. He could have prevented it, certainly, but he was not the one ultimately responsible for it. Even with that, however, she never truly thought about the mercenary's past. And like Neda and Sophronia before her, she began to pity him.

Like them, she knew better than to say so. He was a proud man. . .not a man who accepted pity. He struggled with gentleness and compassion. Accepting pity was the furthest thing from his mind, and yet, Phaedra did pity him. He had such potential. He had the spirit and the heart of a protector, and yet, he did not know it. If he did not have that heart and spirit, he would have never returned. He would have left them to their fates. He returned to free Neda, and instead, freed an entire village.

It would have been improper to say that he gave them courage. More correctly, he gave them an opportunity to fight for themselves. And sometimes, that was far more important than anything else. Their most reluctant hero. He saved Neda's angel, he aided the village that sheltered him after he almost died. Now it was time for him to go home, and perhaps finally find some healing.

She had no idea what brought Luke to this place, what drove him away from his home. Nor did she understand the enigma that was his brother. Phaedra's English wasn't as good as Neda's, but she understood enough. She understood that Luke's brother both loved and hated him, resented him for not being his 'keeper.' Phaedra, who had no siblings, asked Juliet what he meant.

Juliet sighed and answered in Greek, "He does not understand that being the keeper of one's brother is as true for himself as it is for the mercenary. He is still a child, seeking his older brother's protection from monsters, both real and imaginary, and from the thunder." Juliet looked up, her eyes reflecting a rare (for then) compassion for her fellow expatriate, as she added, "He doesn't understand that there are times when the older sibling requires protection and shielding."

Something that Juliet's own sister, Drusilla, understood. There were few in the village who didn't know about Drusilla. Fiery, fierce, protective Drusilla who was so smart and so beautiful. There were few in the village who didn't know about Juliet's love and envy for her younger, prettier sister. None ever saw a photograph of Drusilla, but it was well known that Juliet considered her sister to be far more attractive.

Was it because of Drusilla that the first seeds of compassion were planted for Luke? Or was it Juliet's own feelings toward him? She was in danger of being torn apart if she did not acknowledge what she felt. Phaedra went back outside, clutching her aunt's address in her hand. It was possible that soldiers would know the name 'Juliet Walker,' but unlikely. Phaedra didn't believe that giving her aunt's address to the American woman would place her aunt in danger.

She walked up to Juliet, who was shushing Angela. Luke still looked somewhat bewildered, and it was all Phaedra could do to keep from laughing or hugging him. She knew from stories told around the village that he didn't deal well with being laughed at. She wouldn't be laughing at him, but wasn't sure if he understood that. Instead, she focused on Juliet.

Usually, Angela wasn't a fussy baby. She didn't cry much, unless someone she didn't like picked her up. She was quite particular about who held her. At the top of that list were Phaedra, Sophronia, Juliet and Luke. Angela seemed happiest with Luke. Almost as if she knew what her mother meant to him. And maybe she did. One simply never knew what was inside a child's mind.

However, she was no doubt sensing the distress and anxiety of those around her, for she was whimpering and squirming in the sling. Juliet hummed to her, swaying slightly on the horse. Justinian, a mount worthy of his name, stayed perfectly still as the young woman tried to calm the child. Luke looked back at them, his expression somewhere between irritated and concerned.

"What's wrong with her?" he asked brusquely in English as he dismounted and walked over to Justinian. Despite his harsh words, his finger was gentle as he caressed Angela's cheek. Juliet glared at him, but as he often did when he felt like it, he ignored her. When he spoke next, his voice was much softer and much more gentle. He learned a few things during the last few months. He said softly, "What is it, angel? You gotta be quiet, baby girl, 'kay? Shhhh. . ."

Despite her glare, Juliet shifted in her saddle to make it easier for Luke to reach the little girl. Angela quieted a little, and Luke went on, "That's my good girl. You gotta be quiet, so's you don't give us away. It'll be all right, angel. . .I ain't gonna let nothin' happen to you, ever again." He caressed her cheek again with that single finger, and it came away wet with Angela's tears.

"I think she was just scared. . .so much was strange. She needed to know that hers were around," Juliet said in a soft voice. She was staring at Luke with an inscrutable expression. Phaedra looked at Sophronia, who merely smiled wisely. Luke returned the gaze, and Juliet said, "She's all right now. We should get going." Luke bobbed his head once, and returned to his horse.

With him safely remounted, Juliet looked at Phaedra with a defeated look in her eyes and said, "This will be a very long journey." Sophronia just patted her knee and Phaedra handed the address up to her friend. Juliet scrutinized it, then nodded, sliding it into her saddle bags. She went on, "I have no idea when we will reach the United States, but you have my word. . .the day we touch American soil, I will write you."

"I believe you," Phaedra answered simply, "safe journey, my friend. I believe Luke is anxious to be gone." Juliet responded with a wry smile, and Phaedra continued, "May the spirits of the Teacher and Neda watch over all three of you." Now Juliet's smile bordered on the rueful. She knew something that Phaedra didn't, though perhaps that shouldn't have surprised her. Each knew a lot the other didn't.

"Of that, I have **NO** doubt. Don't ever forget me? Promise?" Juliet requested, sounding like a young girl of fifteen years now. Phaedra nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Juliet favored them both with a watery smile, then said, "Then we should be going." Her eyes closed and her face went very still. After a moment, her eyes opened once more and she smiled at them.

"May God and all the angels and saints keep you safe and free, child. Safe journey," Sophronia replied. She directed this to both Juliet and Luke. The mercenary looked down, as if her words made him uncomfortable, but said nothing. He spurred his horse and cantered off without a backward glance. Then again, that was not his way. . .to look back. It was probably for the best.

Juliet followed him, no longer trusting herself to speak. But unlike the mercenary, she looked back several times, as if committing the village and the people to her memory. As if she wanted to remember every detail, every color, every sound. And as if hearing her thoughts, Sophronia said softly, "She knows she will never come back here again. Angela, perhaps. But Luke and Juliet. . .never will we see them again."

"Will they be all right, old mother?" Phaedra asked. She turned to look at Sophronia as the figures of Luke and Juliet became ever smaller. Sophronia didn't answer, and Phaedra guessed it was because she didn't know. Phaedra lowered her eyes briefly. When she looked back, neither American was visible, and she said softly, "I shall light candles for them." Sophronia smiled and linked arms with her, then they walked slowly to the church together. Their part in this story was finished. Now it was up to Juliet and Luke. Phaedra only hoped they survived their journey. . .and each other.

Luke thought with the passage of time, the ache in his chest would dissipate, if not disappear. But that supposition was blown to hell only moments earlier when the old midwife put her arms around him. Aside from Neda, the last person to hold him like that. . .was his mother. The one person whose opinion truly mattered to Luke for most of his life, even after her death.

Charlotte Richmond, even in the year before she died, was the most beautiful woman in the world to her oldest son. Time and worry faded her auburn hair to a pale red, but the love in her bright blue eyes never dimmed. As a young boy, just after their escape from Luke's step-father, she would run her hand over his pale hair and call him her 'little man.' Luke could remember the pride he felt when his mother said that.

He never really thought about those days as he got older. He was too busy trying to keep himself and his family safe. Especially after Mama died. His mother's death devastated him, though he knew it was coming. Even at fourteen, he was well on his way to becoming what he was. His mother knew what he was becoming. She knew these things, even if he couldn't figure out how she knew. Knew, and loved him anyhow.

As the two Americans rode, Luke found himself half in the past and half in the present. His eyes never stopped scanning the landscape for any possible trouble, any possible threat to the two now under his protection. But his mind kept carrying him back to that last awful day of his childhood. Luke just came back from dealing with a man who Elijah said was scaring Mama, when his nine year old brother ran out to greet him.

Luke swung down from his horse and dropped to his knees beside his little brother, hands on Elijah's shoulders as the child fought to tell him what was wrong. The only thing Elijah could force out was, 'Mama,' and the fourteen year old knew that his mother's final descent had begun. He squeezed his little brother's shoulders, and quietly asked him to take care of the horse for him. . .he'd see to Mama.

Reassured now that his big brother was here and that Luke would take care of everything, the little boy drew Luke's horse Travis into the small shack of a stable. Travis, ordinarily a horse just as mean as Luke, was as docile as a lamb around the nine year old. . .then again, he seemed to understand just what Luke would do to him if he ever took a chunk out of that little hide.

Satisfied that Elijah would be all right, Luke steeled himself and went into the small house where he lived with his mother and brother for the last nine years. He had a vague memory of their old house, in the settlement improperly named 'Heaven on Earth.' To himself, he always called it 'Hell on Earth,' because that was what it was for him and his mother. It was there that Luke learned to hate.

Hatred was left at the door of this house, however. Luke stole into his mother's bedroom and his heart sank. Elijah was right. Even at his age, Luke already saw enough of death to recognize it was coming for his mother. And it would be here. . .maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe even next month. . .but it would be soon. He sat down on the bed beside his mother and took one worn hand in his own two larger hands. The illness and constantly watching for signs of her ex-husband wore on her. She opened her eyes and smiled at him, whispering, "Luke. My Luke. Not so little now. . .almost a full-grown man."

He was supposed to beg his mother not to leave him. That was what he wanted to do. He wanted to throw himself into her arms, and beg her not to leave them. Instead, Luke just stared down at his mother and whispered, "You gotta go, don't ya?" Charlotte nodded and reached up to caress his face. Her fingers came away wet. Luke rasped out, a lump in his throat making it difficult to speak, "I don't want. . ."

"Oh, my sweet Luke. . .I don't want to leave you! And I won't. . .my body won't be here, but my soul will. I'll always look after you. Whenever you feel a breeze caress your face or hair, that will be my hand or my lips. I've done so many things wrong, Luke. . .I should have taken you and your brother to your father, or my friend Mary. I was so afraid. . .I've always been so afraid. You would have liked Mary. She was everything I'm not. . .brave and strong," his mother answered, coughing on the last few words as her lungs struggled to work.

"You are strong, Mama, you are brave," Luke protested. He was supposed to be almost a man, but he was quickly forgetting that. Even now, tears were slipping down his face, and the killer was being replaced by the child he still was. He wiped at them angrily, repeating, "You're the strongest, bravest woman in the world, Mama. I don't want you to go. I don't know what to do, I don't know how to take care of Elijah!"

His mother was weeping now, and she whispered, "Lay down beside me, sweet child." Luke did as he was told. . .one of his last obedient gestures. . .and rested his head against his mother's chest as he did when he was small. His mother whispered, "You look so much like your real father, Luke. You have his eyes. . .you have his smile. And you're a protector, just like he is. I'm so proud of you. . .you, and Elijah, and Allison were the greatest achievements of my life."

Allison, Luke knew by now, was his older sister. She died three years before his own birth, when she was just five years old. If Allison survived, she would have been twenty-two now. . . possibly married. And sometimes, especially in the early days after Mama left Richmond, Luke had dreams of his older sister. She was thirteen then, in his dreams, the age she would have been had she lived.

And in his dreams, she would sit beside him on the bed and comfort him. She would tell him stories, and that he was her little brother. . .that she would always love him and look after him. Luke whispered in a choked voice, "Can you see Allison, Mama?" His mother's hand stilled in his hair, and for a brief, frightening moment, Luke thought, 'this was it.'

Then his mother replied, her own voice distant, "She's never been far away from me, Luke, during the last few months. I can hear her laughter in my mind, when you or Elijah do something to make me smile. I can hear her weeping for you. She'll be there when the time comes. Luke? Promise me? Promise me, if you ever need anything, you'll go to Mary Travis in Four Corners."

Travis? But that was the name of his horse! His mother coughed and Luke raised his head from her chest, to allow her to breathe a little easier, and once her lungs didn't find it necessary to strain so much, she continued, "Your horse was named after her father-in-law, Orrin Travis. She was my friend. She didn't judge me, for my time with your father. Go to her. Tell her that you're my son. Promise?"

"I swear it, Mama," Luke answered, shifting himself so that he could look at her more properly. From this vantage point, she looked like the laughing young woman he remembered from his distant childhood, before the settlement began failing. Before the man he thought of as his father became drunk and surly. Before the laughter was replaced by fear in his mother's eyes.

Mother and son were silent for a long time, then Charlotte whispered, "She may have a new last name now. Larabee. He was the leader of the men who escorted our wagon train from Four Corners. He was handsome, Chris Larabee, though not as handsome as your father. I was so drawn to him, to your father, but even I could see the way Chris Larabee looked at Mary. Who could blame him? She was beautiful."

Luke said softly, "I remember before Elijah was born, you told me that if you had another daughter, she wouldn't be another 'Allison,' but 'Mary.' Was it because of her?" His mother smiled, and again, Luke saw a flash of the woman his mother was once. He was only just noticing girls at his age, but could easily see what drew his unknown father to her. From what she said to him in the past year, since her revelation that Will Richmond wasn't his birth father, it seemed that she was lonely and sad when they met.

"She's exactly why. I want you to find someone like Mary, Luke. I want you to find someone stubborn and willful, someone who is bossy and opinionated. You would never be happy with a docile little woman. You need someone strong and feisty and willing to fight you tooth and nail if she thinks you're wrong about something," Charlotte replied. In the present, Luke looked over at his female companion.

He wondered what his mother would make of Juliet. At first glance, she was what his mother warned him against. . .quiet and docile. But there was a streak of pure steel that ran through her. Stubborn and willful? Hell, yes! Not in the way Mary Travis was. . .Luke never met the woman. . .but definitely stubborn and willful in her own way. Bossy? The woman defined bossiness!

A gentle breeze caressed his face, and Luke smiled. _I ain't ready for that, Mama_, he told his mother, _still ain't used to bein' alive. 'Sides, the woman has reason to hate me, and I really ain't that fond of her myself_. He could almost see his mother rolling her eyes in irritation, and for the second time in the last two months, Luke smiled to himself. His mother was real quiet these last two years. . .but she was back now.

There was a decidedly unladylike snort, then Allison Richmond grinned at her mother as the latter said in annoyance, _Silly child! I've always been here. . .he just wasn't ready to hear me. Sarah, did you have this much trouble with Chris? Then again, that's a little different. . .he was your husband, and Luke is my son. That does make a world of difference, I would imagine._

_In some ways, Chris was worse. Not just in taking his chance with Mary, but thinking that he was somehow responsible for my death and Adam's, _Sarah Larabee replied. She paused, looked at Charlotte, then at Allison, asking both mother and daughter, _And do you plan to keep an eye on Lilith? She was a selfish, manipulative bitch when she was alive, I don't think death has improved her much._

This time, it was Allison's turn to snort, the red-haired woman adding_, Please, Aunt Sarah! After what she did to both of my brothers, I'm not letting her out of my sight. And Mama, what are we gonna do about Daddy? If he doesn't watch his step, Luke is gonna end up killing him when they get back to the States. _Allison's mother didn't answer. She was watching her middle child with the same intense stare she wore when Elijah shot Luke during the skirmish.

After a moment, her mother replied, _You let me worry about your father, Allison_. There was an icy quality in her voice that worried Allison. In spite of everything, the girl still loved her father. He was her daddy, after all. She was furious with him for hurting her mother. . .not just after Allison died, but after Elijah was born. She was furious with him for hurting Luke. But he was still her father.

Allison started to speak, but Aunt Sarah shook her head. In part because Allison's little niece Sarah was joining them. As much as she hated the child's mother, Allison loved her niece with equal intensity, and she scooped the little girl up into her arms with a flourish. Sarah giggled with delight, patting Allison's cheeks. Her mother's face softened, as it always did for Sarah. Whether she was Elijah's daughter or Luke's, she was still Allison's niece, still her mother's granddaughter.

Sarah pointed to Luke, crying with delight, _Luke_! Luke was, in fact, one of her first words as she grew here, as she would have on Earth. She arrived before her mother and younger brother, and both Charlotte and Allison adopted her. She was theirs, as much as she was Lilith's, and Sarah spent most of her last three years here watching the man who was either her father or her uncle.

Not even Lilith was sure if Sarah was Luke's daughter or Elijah's. She lay with them both. And Sarah didn't care. She just knew that the ladies with her loved Luke, so she did too. Fortunately, she was elsewhere two months earlier, when it seemed likely that he would join them. Fortunate, because Allison's mother was fully prepared to return to earth as a vengeful ghost if her oldest son died.

And when Allison's mother was on the warpath, no one was safe. Not even the lovely brunette who even now stood at her and Charlotte's side. Neda smiled at little Sarah, caressing the child's cheek, and answered, _Yes, little one. . .Luke. He and the nice lady Juliet are ready to go home. And I think, little one, that when they return to Texas, they will go to see where your body lies._

Like many children of her age, Sarah Richmond had a difficult time understanding the difference between her corporeal form and her spirit form. It was all the more confusing for the little girl, since she never knew life. This was the only life she ever knew. Allison was five when she left the mortal plane, and grew up here, in the Afterlife or Heaven, or whatever one wished to call it. But she knew the difference.

Luke wasn't ready to join them. . .it wasn't yet his time. Charlotte knew it, as did Sarah Larabee, and neither woman was ready to tell Allison how they knew that. Even so, it took all of Sarah and Allison's combined strength to keep Charlotte from going down to Earth to save her son. Fortunately, however, the young woman Juliet did what had to be done. Even as she hated herself for her perceived betrayal of her husband and lost child, she did what was necessary to save Luke.

There was no betrayal of her husband, or her daughter. Indeed, to both Allison and Charlotte, Juliet was the one betrayed. She accompanied her husband to a foreign land, trusting in him to keep her and their unborn child safe. He not only failed to protect her, he didn't even make the attempt. Whatever her brother's flaws were, once he claimed a woman, Luke didn't fail to protect her.

There was the unfortunate incident with Neda, but like Neda herself, Allison knew she was fated to die that day. It was just a question of how. And her brother would never forgive himself for his part in her death, even if Neda forgave him instantly. There was also the matter of Lilith. Allison always hated her sister-in-law. Even before she watched Lilith bite Elijah's ear to get a rise out of Luke, she hated her.

It was Allison who first started calling the ex-prostitute 'the French poodle,' and it was soon taken up by first her mother, then by Sarah Larabee (who wasn't nearly as saintly as her husband liked to believe, or his friend Buck Wilmington. . .or her father for that matter). They abstained from referring to Lilith in this manner while her daughter was around. . .they hated Lilith, all three of them, but she was Sarah's mother.

As for Juliet, Charlotte was reserving judgment. While all four women knew that the widow had good reason to hate Luke, even though he himself wasn't the one who murdered her husband and daughter and raped her, Luke was still Charlotte's son. Juliet redeemed herself in Charlotte's eyes when she quietly apologized, and when the first steps were taken toward a truce, however uneasy it was.

Allison understood the young widow, far better than her mother did. And she found that strange, since her mother also felt things for someone she wasn't supposed to. No, Allison didn't understand Juliet because because she knew what it was to be in love. Rather, she understood her because she knew what it was like to feel things toward a person that she shouldn't, or thought she shouldn't, feel. Just because in her case, it was hatred for her youngest brother's wife, rather than desire for a man from the same occupation as those who killed her husband, made no never mind to Allison Richmond.

And Neda, bless her, was quiet about her friend. Perhaps, even as young as she was. . .the youngest of them all, save Sarah, Neda realized that Charlotte would have to make peace with Juliet, on her own terms. Neda exhibited a similar protectiveness toward Angela. And, Allison had no doubt that Sarah Larabee would behave in a similar manner, had her son Adam survived the fire that took their lives more than thirty years earlier. Adam was Allison's own age, and they often wondered if they would have met and married, if they were permitted to live.

On the other hand, if she was among the mortals, she couldn't protect either of her brothers. At the moment, Elijah was beyond her protection. He would continue to be out of her protection for some time, as well. Luke was another story. It was a long journey to their destination. . .no matter which route they took. It would be dangerous. And Allison didn't trust her sister-in-law. Luke was still vulnerable to her. . .perhaps now more than ever, now that he knew she was dead.

_She will find it hard to defeat the two of us, sister_, Neda said quietly as Allison's mother stared down into the mortals. Charlotte Richmond's attention shifted from her older son to her younger. Allison looked back at this young woman who brought her little brother back to life, who reawakened the boy he was once. Neda smiled, a wicked gleam appearing in her dark eyes_, For I must protect those who protect my daughter, must I not?_ Allison laughed aloud and linked arms with the young woman.

_And I must protect my little brother, if only by protecting those under his protection. Neda, if it was within our power to save you, we would have_, Allison replied and Neda smiled, reaching around to pat her forearm. Whatever anger she felt wasn't directed at Allison or her family, but at the murderers of her husband. She found a worthy ally in this woman. **_Daddy, please. . .if you ever loved me_**, Allison thought privately, _**please leave Luke alone once he gets back to the States. Because if you hurt him, I won't be able to stop Mama, no matter how hard I try**. _

The first day of riding passed without incident. This would be the only day they rode during the daytime. Juliet could see Luke's unease. She wasn't entirely comfortable with it, either. She learned the hard way that evil deeds transpired just as easily during the daylight hours as at night. She had no fear of the dark, despite reading countless stories of the supernatural.

The most recent was that vampire novel. . .what was the name of that author? Stoker, yes. Bram Stoker. And the book was called '_Dracula_.' Juliet shuddered. She read that during their passage across the Atlantic, and it gave her nightmares. Juliet learned at an early age to stifle her fears, even when awakening from nightmares. Now that she thought about it, she stifled a great deal of her emotions.

Until recently. Juliet looked ahead, to where Luke rode. He glanced around him constantly, totally on guard. After he calmed Angela, she found it much easier to think of him by name, which worried her. Despite their truce, she still didn't like the idea of finding common ground with him. Nor did she like the suspicion that was creeping into her mind. . .that one of the reasons she hardened her heart against him was because. . . was because she was jealous of him, envious of his easy anger.

She never learned how to get angry. Such powerful emotion, of any kind, whether it was fear, anger, or even love, was to be suppressed and denied. She was a child of the upper classes, she was above such things. When she lost her temper with Luke weeks earlier, it wasn't just because of what he said, or what he represented. It wasn't just rage of the last three years. No. . .no, some rage of the last twenty-eight years escaped during that confrontation. That was why she was left so shaken.

Luke was ruled by his emotions, and she found she envied that. She wasn't afraid of him, but he did frighten her at times, and there was a difference. He frightened her, even as she envied him. She envied his freedom. . .his utter lack of caring for what other people might think of it. Indeed, Juliet believed that he only cared about the opinions of two people. . .Sophronia and Neda.

Juliet was drawn out of her musings by the discovery that it was quite cold. She blinked, and looked around. Much to her surprise, she realized that the sun was going down. In front of her, Luke drew his horse to a halt in front of a small house. He motioned for Juliet to stay put, even as he himself dismounted. Juliet nodded her understanding, though she looked around nervously.

Luke approached the house, which seemed to be abandoned, with his gun drawn. Juliet realized with a shudder that she held that gun once, and for the first time, recalled the inscribing on the gun. '_The Gospel According to Luke_.' In spite of herself, and in spite of the situation, Juliet found herself smiling. It seemed that Luke had a sense of humor, though a warped one.

The gunfighter returned from checking out the house and holstered his gun, saying in a low voice, "Deserted. Figger the Major and his men drove out the owners. Not that long ago." There was a bitter contempt in his voice as he spoke of the Major. He reached out his hands for Angela, saying softly, "Gimme the baby, and I'll hold her while ya get down. Then I'll take care of the saddlebags."

Juliet didn't demur and eased the baby into his arms. Angela was awake and cooed up at Luke. The widow pretended to notice the enchanted smile that appeared on the mercenary's face. Instead, she found as she dismounted that she was stiff and sore all over. They departed from the village early this morning, riding nearly twelve hours. In addition, she spent that time holding the baby securely as well as riding. Her legs almost gave way as her feet touched the ground. Luke took a step forward, his eyes reflecting a reluctant concern, but she waved him off.

She didn't want him touching her. Juliet still remembered what happened the last time she touched him, and she was fully together at the time. . .as opposed to exhausted and saddle-sore. She said softly, "I'm fine, just not used to spending so much time in the saddle. Give me a few minutes while my legs work again, and I'll take the baby inside." Juliet sighed, closing her eyes as she waited for her legs to stabilize.

When she opened them, Luke was staring at her. There was a strange expression in his blue eyes (and did she have to notice just how blue his eyes were?), a strange expression that she recognized after a moment as begrudging respect. He asked softly, "Sure yer all right? Ya ain't complained once and that was some hard ridin,' especially with a little baby."

She smiled at him weakly, not entirely sure how to deal with this new Luke, and replied, "I'm fine. If we're setting out tomorrow night, then I'll have all day tomorrow to rest." She took a few wobbly steps forward, then almost collapsed. Once again, Luke reached out for her, concern warring with impatience. Again, she waved him off, saying, "I'm all right. I can do this. . .you try to hold onto me and the baby, and we'll all go down. You've been hurt worse than I have."

Luke glared at her, but stopped and allowed Juliet to find her legs. However, he said in a determined voice, "I'll carry the baby in. Don't want ya fallin' down and hurtin' Angela." His shoulder had to still be hurting him, but Luke turned back toward the house. Juliet watched him go, then followed after a few moments. Every time she thought she had the mercenary figured out, he did something that totally threw her off guard. As Luke reached the house, Angela cradled against his body, he turned back to look at Juliet almost worriedly.

And as he did, Juliet's breath caught in his throat. He really was a handsome man. She still wanted to hate him. It was so much easier than opening her heart. Than allowing him the means to destroy her, if he so chose. But as blue eyes locked with hazel, Juliet found that it wasn't so easy to harden her heart against this man. His glance backward revealed an unexpected vulnerability.

Even now, she struggled between her remaining loyalty to her late husband and her desire to do right by Neda's daughter. Even now, she was being torn in two. Luke said very softly, his accent barely noticeable, "I ain't never gonna hurt you. She loved you. . .I done enough to hurt her." Juliet released a breath she didn't realize she was holding, and nodded.

She moved haltingly toward the house, determined to stand on her own two feet in one way at least. The distance to the door seemed like a league, but she kept moving forward, drawn by the sight of Luke framed in the doorway, Angela held against his chest. He should have been dead. They should have both been dead. But they were here, and they were alive, and she owed it to Neda to make sure they all stayed that way.

She had to stay strong. One step, then another, brought her closer to Luke and Angela, until they were both framed in the doorway. She tipped her head back to look at him. Once more, hazel eyes met blue. Then, a slow, grudging smile graced Luke's face. He said softly, "Ya got grit, I'll give ya that. Imagine that's how ya survived. Too damn ornery to die." Juliet blinked, not sure how to respond.

In truth, coming from Luke, that was a high compliment. And it meant more than if he told her that she was the most beautiful woman he ever saw. Juliet knew that wouldn't have been true. . . Neda was far more beautiful than she was, even on Neda's worst day and Juliet's best.

And for once, Luke didn't spoil it with one of his stupid comments. He just smiled at her and gently placed Angela in her arms, saying softly, "Go sit down somewhere. I'll bring everythin' inside. Just rest." Juliet watched him go, totally unaware that another brick of the wall protecting her heart from this man just fell out of place and left her vulnerable.

If he wasn't careful, she might actually find herself liking him. And that could be disastrous. . .for them both. Assuming, of course, it didn't end up further transforming them both.


	5. Hope You Guess My Name

Reviews:

Illiaris: Thank you! I was afraid I would veer off and start writing Luke as I do Faramir. I love them both, very much, but they are NOT the same, and I didn't want to disrespect either character by making them into the same. One of the reasons I love them both so much is because they are different. One thing I do struggle with is Luke changing too much and too quickly. I don't much care for fics that dwell on a character's physical attractiveness, no matter how handsome the actor is. I would rather go into less obvious things. The vulnerability that I sometimes saw in Luke's eyes. . .the tentative sweetness that existed side by side with the trigger finger that worked faster than his brain. The man was _not_ stupid. . .he just didn't think. Big difference.

Rosie: Thank you for spreading the word! You don't know how much I appreciate it! I honestly wasn't sure if there would be an audience for '_Dust_' stories, but neither Luke nor Juliet would shut up. And I'm sure you realize that when a given character talks to you, you listen. And I agree. . .more than anything else, Luke needed to be loved. Just look at the way he responded to and interacted with Neda. She didn't love him, per se, but she cared for him, as well as taking care of him. And the reason that he found it easier to kill than to love was because he had so little of the latter. It may be an oversimplification, but it's true at its core. In some ways, he belongs to the 'I'm broke, please fix me' league. 'Fixing' may not be possible, but I'll see what I can do about the loving part!

Chapter Four

Hope You Guess My Name

The pair was silent as the ashes scattered across the cemetary where Angela's birth parents rested. Edge whispered, "Good-bye, Angela. . .it was good knowin' ya, prune." Amy rested her hand on his shoulder and Edge looked down at the ground. Once more, his eyes were caught by Luke's gravesite. Everything seemed to come back to this man. Edge asked softly, "Do you know how I knew about the shootout. . .and everything up to the moment Juliet lifted the rifle to save Luke's life?"

He sensed, rather than saw, Amy shaking her head, and Edge went on, "I dreamed about it. The night Angela died. The night I found the gold. I saw it all, Amy, in my dreams. In my dream. I don't know. . .yeah, I do. I know why it ended where it did. Some idiot woke me up just as the soldier was aimin' his gun at Luke. That's why I thought he died. That, and hearin' about Luke seein' the future."

"Luke saw a possible future, Edge, not _the_ future. For a long time, he thought he saw the future, but he didn't. It was a possible future, and it was engineered by Lilith, to make him think that his life was over. She didn't count on Neda's determination. Or on Juliet," Amy replied. She paused and Edge looked at her as she added bitterly, "Then again, she had a habit of doing that."

She looked up at Edge, saying softly, "If Luke had died, then what he saw in his fever dream would have come true. Elijah would have raised Angela with his new wife. Once he saw Lilith for what she was." But Edge still had questions, based on what he heard from the orderlies about Angela while he wasn't there. Actually, if he remembered correctly, he was getting his other thumb broken.

"The orderlies said she was crying for 'Father.' They figured that she meant the priest. I figured later that she meant Elijah. Was she crying for Elijah or for Luke?" the young man asked. Amy didn't answer at first, choosing instead to tuck his hand under her arm. Edge asked next, "But you know. . .when she took my gun, and put it in her mouth, it. . .that don't seem like something Elijah's daughter would do. More like. . . more like something Luke woulda done."

"I don't know, Edge," Amy admitted, "Maybe she meant both of them. You're right. That is more like something like Luke would have done than Elijah. But based on what Gramma Faye told me, she had some of Elijah in her, too. She quoted Scripture, almost as often as Elijah did." Edge nodded, remembering that. In fact, that was one of the things that led him to conclude that Elijah raised Angela, rather than Luke.

However, Amy wasn't finished. She continued, "Truth is, after Luke died, and Angela alienated the rest of her family, Elijah was the only one who could get through to her. Gramma Faye always used to say it was because they were so much alike. People often said that Luke was selfish, and he could be. . .but he was honest about his selfishness. Elijah covered his up, just like Angela did."

It was on the tip of Edge's tongue to defend his dead friend, but realized they were talking about a totally different Angela. The Angela that Amy was describing came from the 1920's and 1930's, a very different woman from the one who turned his life around by telling him about Luke. Amy went on, "Gramma Faye told me that Angela went so far as to call Elijah 'Father' and his second wife, a vast improvement over Lilith, 'Mother.' She totally rejected my entire family for twenty years, until Elijah's death."

Edge found that he didn't want to talk about that, and instead, asked, "So what happened between Luke and Juliet? Angela told me once that it took Neda a long time to bring Luke back to life. And what about my dream? Why did it only show me part of the truth?" Amy smiled ruefully as she led him back to the car. Edge glanced over his shoulder at Luke's stone. It was well-tended, with flowers at its base. Neda told him that they would remember him. He didn't die there, but she was right. They never forgot.

"Your dream is easily explained, Edge. It was Luke's way of acknowledging you as a member of our family. I don't know why you only received part of the story. Maybe Luke was testing you. I just know that it's something started by my great-great-grandmother Charlotte, when she decided that someone was worthy of a member of her family. I should add that she never considered Lilith worthy," Amy added.

She smiled suddenly, adding, "Did I mention that 'Charlotte' is my middle name? Apparently, I had red hair when I was born, and since they couldn't name me 'Luke,' for obvious reasons, they named me 'Amy Charlotte' instead. As to what happened between Luke and Juliet. . .well. . .that's a story for the trip back to the airport. Luke has decided that you're a member of this family. I think it's time you met the others."

Edge wasn't sure what to make of that. Luke sent him the dream, as a way of saying, 'welcome to the family.' The trouble was, with everything else that happened to him, he realized he could believe it. It was said that Luke claimed Neda, in those last moments, before her life ended. In turn, it seemed that his last days with Luke's adopted daughter meant that Luke claimed Edge as well.

His father was long dead, and what did Angela say about Luke, before he realized that she was Neda's unborn child? Luke was a mean bastard, but he was good to her. Edge would have wanted his father to be like that. A mean bastard, but good to his family. And as the story was told, didn't Edge come to admire Luke? Want to be like him? Just like you would want to be like your father?

His dream meant that Luke accepted him, even adopted him. Edge squared his shoulders, making a silent promise to that long-ago gunfighter, _I don't know if I can live up to you. . .but I'll sure as hell try. And I'll start with your great-granddaughter_. In his mind's eye, he could see Luke smiling at him, and Amy said softly, as if hearing that silent conversation, "Luke and Juliet stayed two nights at that old abandoned house. They were both far more tired than they realized. . ."

* * *

When Juliet opened her eyes, early morning sunlight was streaming through the curtains. She turned her head to one side, trying to figure out what she was doing here, and slowly, the memories returned. Only a short distance away, Luke sat. His head was bent, lower lip caught between his teeth. Luke's left leg was stretched out in front of him, but Juliet could hear Angela cooing softly. 

Slowly, she sat up, but Luke was too focused on what he was doing. . .namely, it seemed, cleaning up Angela. Now Juliet could see the baby waving her arms at Luke, narrowly missing his face a few times. However, he smiled down at her, and even caught her tiny fist once in a while. Juliet coughed a little, grimacing at the dryness of her throat. Luke's head came up, his shoulders going back. When he realized Juliet was awake, he relaxed and returned his attention to Angela.

"How long?" she asked hoarsely, fighting valiantly against a yawn. . .a battle that she lost. Luke didn't answer her at first, not that Juliet minded. She was trying to make sure her eyes remained open. It helped, she discovered, if she focused on something. Unfortunately, the only things around on which she could focus were Luke and the baby. Luke's own attention was focused entirely on Angela, allowing Juliet to gaze at him in peace. He didn't like people looking at him, any more than he liked being laughed at.

His head was bent over the child, his rough hands showing extraordinary gentleness as he talked to Angela in a low voice. Juliet couldn't understand a word he was saying, and didn't make the attempt. His words weren't meant for her. At last, Luke finished what he was doing and answered in a raspy voice, "We both slept a long time. Ain't sure how long, but I do know ya slept longer. Probably a day, a day and a half. Baby woke me up a few times, crying. Nah, don't apologize. Ya needed it."

He looked away again, obviously uncomfortable with meeting her eyes. Juliet frowned. That was very unlike her companion. Over the course of the first day traveling, it became easier to think of him by name rather than as 'the mercenary.' And one thing she knew about Luke. . .he tended to drive through his problems, even when he should be more subtle. There was the matter of his brother and sister-in-law, but that was an extreme situation. For him to look away. . .something was wrong.

In Juliet's experience, only one thing could make someone like Luke. . .or any man, come to that. . .react that way. She asked slowly, "While you were awake, did I talk in my sleep?" Luke still didn't look at her, but nodded, and Juliet continued, trying to make her voice as gentle as possible, "What did I say? What did I talk about?" For a long time, she didn't think he would answer.

He rose to his feet and walked away from Juliet and the baby. Juliet wanted to demand answers, but some part of her warned against it. In some ways, dealing with Luke was like dealing with a skittish or wounded animal. Extreme caution was required. He said at first only, "I gotta take this out and bury it. Can't figure out how such a little thing can make such a godawful mess."

Juliet bit back a smile at that, and instead replied, "I was changing my sister's swaddling clothes when I was very young. My mother was very sick after Drusilla was born, and she never fully regained her strength. I guess you could say I was both mother and older sister to Dru, even before Mother died." Luke deposited the bundle outside the backstep, and came back into the room.

He sat down beside Angela and lifted her into his arms, his face betraying only a hint of pain. He grew stronger daily, but she knew he was frustrated with his body's repeated betrayals. He still didn't shoot quite as well as he used to, something that caused him no end of frustration. Luke never said so, of course, but Juliet could read his face very well. She could see it in his eyes.

Instead of answering her question, he asked one of his own, "Drusilla. . .what kind of name is _that_?" He began to rock Angela back and forth, humming something under his breath. Juliet didn't know if it was a lullabye, or maybe a song from one of the cattle drives. She heard about those from Bruce, who took part in a cattle drive as a lark. Only it was anything but. He seemed to get into a lot of those situations.

"It's Latin. . .it means strong. Your name means light. At least, according to some translations," Juliet replied, accepting this neutral subject. Luke looked at her, his face expressionless, and she continued after a moment, "I'm not sure where Mama got it from. My sister's name, I mean. Maybe it was a wish that Dru would be strong, that she would have the strength that Mama thought she lacked."

"Been my experience that a woman who bears two girl-children's gotta be strong. Ma had a daughter 'fore I was born. Allison. She died when she was five," Luke answered. He looked up, pain flashing in his eyes, and added, "Ma died when I was fourteen. Died because of my bastard stepfather. . .always lookin' over her shoulder, always tryin' to look out for us. Made herself sick, Ma did."

Juliet swallowed hard, trying to imagine the effect that would have on a fourteen year old boy. She really didn't have to, not when the result sat beside her. After a moment, Luke continued, "And Juliet? What's that mean? Sure is pretty, even if it ishigh-falutin.' Ma named my sister, usin' her maiden name. Charlotte Allison Richmond."

"There are a lot of meanings, from what I can tell. Some say 'Juliet' means 'blind,' others say it means 'youthful,' and still others have my favorite meaning. 'Loving.' My mother loved Shakespeare. But she also believed in giving her children names that meant something. That why your mother named you 'Luke,' because it meant something to her?" Juliet asked.

He looked away again as Angela tried to draw one of his fingers into her mouth. Juliet smiled at this familiar behavior. After a moment, Luke replied, "She said she named me 'Luke,' since it meant 'light,' and my real pa brought light into her life. Could never figure that out, not when he abandoned her to my step-father. Don't know who I hate more. . .Richmond or my real pa."

Juliet didn't know what to say to that, so she kept silent. After a moment, Luke continued, "Ya said yer ma believed in givin' her kids names that meant somethin.' Drusilla means strong, ya told me that. But what about Juliet? What did that mean to her?" It was her turn to hesitate with her answer. This was the longest conversation she had with Luke since their apologies, and it scared her. It meant her walls weren't as reinforced as she wanted them to be. . .that was what scared her.

But she answered, "I think because she was in love with someone other than my father. Romeo and Juliet was a Shakespearean play about star-crossed lovers, from warring families. Rather than kill herself, as Juliet did, my mother chose to submit to her family's wishes and marry my father. She was never happy. My father didn't care about her. . .viewed her only as a brood mare. And he hated her when she produced only daughters. He hated us, too, for not being sons."

"Now that's just stupid," Luke said flatly, and Juliet looked at him in surprise. He shook his head in disgust, continuing, "I'll be the first to say I ain't smart. But hatin' a kid 'cause they ain't a boy? That's just plain idiotic." Juliet smiled in spite of herself, because it was the same thing she thought many times before, and Luke asked a bit defensively, "What?"

"Nothing, Luke. It was just nice to hear that from someone else. I was still a child when my mother died, and it fell to me to protect my little sister from our father's anger. I sometimes wonder if I married Bruce because I thought life would be different with him. It was. . .but where my father was angry, my husband was largely indifferent," Juliet admitted. Luke didn't answer, and Juliet looked at him quickly.

Angela was asleep in his arms, and he merely stared down at her. Juliet asked softly, "Luke? When I was asleep, did I talk about my father or my husband? Or. . .or maybe my daughter?" A soft exhalation of breath was released from her companion, and Juliet had her answer. She looked down, not knowing what to say about that. She wanted to lash out at him, for witnessing something so deeply personal.

But how could she do that? How could she blame him for sharing the same space? It wasn't his fault. . .it wasn't his fault that he heard. Luke said softly, "Ya were dreamin.' It was a good dream. . .least at first. Guess ya were dreamin' about what mighta been, if yer little girl lived. I knew it was her, 'cause I saw her name when. . . and ya called to Abigail. Then the dream changed."

Juliet wanted to silence him. . .she had the dream before. She knew what he was about to say. And yet, she couldn't. Luke went on, "Ya were cryin' in your sleep, and that made Angela cry. Ya. . ." He stopped and ducked his head, tremors shaking his body. After a moment, he raised his head and looked at her, rasping out, "If ya see them, while we're on the road. Ya _tell_ me. Ya _show_ me."

The last words were mumbled as he looked out the back window. Juliet was far too intelligent to ask him what he meant to do about that knowledge. Instead, she asked softly, "Why would you do anything to them? They did nothing to you, Luke, you have no reason, no need to go after them!" He whipped his head around to look at her, and she almost gasped at the pain she saw in his eyes.

"Ya don't DO that to a woman with child!" he bit out with a passion that shocked Juliet. Luke shook his head, mumbling, "I ain't a good man. I never denied that. But doing somethin' like that, to a woman when she's with child. . .that. . .I can't. . ." He shook his head again, and Juliet stared at him in shock. It occurred to her to ask if there was a time when you _could_ do that to a woman, but dismissed it as snide.

In truth, she didn't know what to say. What could she say? And so, she kept silent, choosing instead to focus on her attention on the child in Luke's arms. He sighed quietly and looked down at the little girl himself, jaw muscles tight with tension. While the barriers were coming down, she still didn't trust him. Still couldn't forgive herself. And like Sophronia said, she couldn't forgive him until she forgave herself.

* * *

Luke felt as though he was coming apart at the seams. In some ways, it was worse than when he came back from the dead, after Elijah shot him. Then, it was because of Neda and her quiet compassion and tenderness. Now. . . This woman, this child, they were turning his world upside down. Angela by being her mother's daughter, and Juliet. . .Juliet by. . .

What the hell? Since when did he think of her as 'Juliet?' Since when. . .? He shook his head, biting back a groan of pain as Angela stirred in his arms. In a way, he was grateful for the pain and the clarity it brought. With just a whisper of movement, Juliet was at his side, pulling Angela from his arms. Her fingers grazed his wrists and Luke was so startled, he almost dropped the baby.

Dammit, that was the second time she did that to him! His skin tingled from where she touched him. He stared up at her, his heart racing. She returned the look with a faint smile. . .a faint, somewhat bemused smile which almost seemed to say, '_why are you looking at me like that_?' The trouble was, he saw something else lurking there, something behind her eyes that said she felt the same strange sensation.

He never felt anything like that before. And things he didn't know, didn't recognize, scared Luke. His customary reaction was to lash out at things that frightened him, but Juliet blurred. The world spun in front of him and Luke reached out to something to steady himself. A light touch to his face stopped the dizziness, and he discovered Neda standing before him. Anything Luke might have said, any thoughtless remark he might have blurted out, died on his lips. He stared up at her and rasped out, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! I shoulda taken ya with me."

Neda dropped to her knees in front of him and lightly caressed his face, murmuring, "Do not fault yourself. It was my time to die, and you could not have changed that. If you took me with you, I would have died on the journey. This I know, this I have seen. It was not your fault, Luke. Nor is it your fault that Lilith killed herself. She made that choice. . .she made that decision. Not you."

She smiled at him tenderly then, stroking his cheek once more, and said, "Now, you must take care of my daughter. And take care of Juliet. She is trying so hard, Luke. So very hard. Trying to forgive herself, trying to forgive you. Be patient with her. I know you can be. I know you are better than what you think you are. I saw it in your eyes. . .I saw it in your smile."

A tear slipped down his cheek and Neda stroked it away. She murmured, "I told you to fight for people, not for money or for gold. And you did. I told you that they would remember you. And they will. The man you were is dead. It is time for you to make a new life for yourself, Luke Hurst. It is time for you for to find a new path. If you must, right wrongs. Avenge innocents. But open your heart to love, Luke."

"I don't know how," he answered helplessly, "I don't know how! I loved my mama. . .I loved her so much, and she left me, she left us! I loved Lilith, I loved Elijah, I lo. . .I ain't like ya, Neda! I ain't even like Jules! Why can't ya understand that?" Neda's eyes rested on him, then he felt her arms slide around him, just as they did when she found him on that mountain.

But the next voice he heard didn't belong to Neda. . .it was another voice, one with a far more familiar accent. And she sounded scared, almost begging, "Luke. . .Luke, please, open your eyes! Luke!" With an effort, Luke forced his eyes open, to find Juliet staring down at him. Juliet? But. . . what happened to Neda? The woman holding him managed a weak smile, saying, "You scared me, Luke!"

He began to answer, only to groan in pain as his shoulder protested the strange position. Juliet murmured, "Shhh, let me get you back down. I'm sorry. You scared me when you passed out. One minute, you were looking at me as if you'd been poleaxed, and I went into the next room, looking for pillows and such. I figured you needed to lay down. When I came back. . ." She shook her head, but Luke could see the fear in her eyes. He didn't fool himself into thinking that she was scared for him. More like, she was scared that she would have to go on alone.

Before he had a chance to say anything, she was gently lowering him to the ground, his head coming to rest on something soft. She said softly, "I found some pillows and blankets. You need to rest, if you didn't get as much sleep as I did." Luke started to protest, started to ask about Angela, but she went on, "Don't worry about Angela. I set up a small bed for her. She's asleep right now. Go to sleep, and I'll see about food for us three. All right?"

Luke nodded wearily, because he didn't have the strength to fight her. He damned his body's weakness, but even that was half-hearted. He was still trying to figure out what the hell happened. Why did he see Neda? As he settled on the floor, Juliet draped a blanket over him and he took comfort from its warmth. She asked softly, "Did you see Neda in your dreams? You called out her name. Did you see her?"

Luke looked at her, and Juliet said softly, "I saw her. Right after our. . . confrontation." Luke almost snorted at that, but decided that wouldn't be smart. Not when he was at her mercy. Juliet continued, "I went to her grave. . .and she found me there. I figure. . .I figure she was trying to look after us. I always wondered about that, you know? If the people whom we love and who loved us watched over us after their deaths. I want to believe that. I really do."

Her fingers ghosted across his face, just as Neda's fingers did while he was unconscious, and she said, "Get some sleep. I'll find something to eat, and I'll keep watch. You're still recovering." Luke started to protest, started to tell her that she wasabossy pain in the ass. But his body once more betrayed him, and he found himself drifting away, lulled to sleep by the gentle fingers. Fingers that already saved his life once. Did he have any choices here, other than to trust her?

No. He didn't. No choices, no options, no way out. He was as trapped now as he was when surrounded by the Major's men. This, he couldn't shoot his way out of. And that thought haunted him as sleep claimed him. Claimed him, as he claimed Neda, and the woman at his side claimed him. Maybe it was the last which scared him most of all. She claimed him. It was only a matter of time before he claimed her as well, and that thought terrified him.

* * *

_You'll run out of energy if you keep that up_, Allison Richmond observed as Neda returned to her side. The younger woman merely smiled and Allison continued, _Then again, I don't have much room to talk. By the time I was fifteen, I made more trips to the mortal world than I can count. I just. . .you need to conserve your energy. Lilith's gonna go after my little brother at some point._

_And I shall be ready for her. Do not forget. We have another ally, among the mortals. And we shall prevail, Allison. We will not allow Lilith to claim Luke's soul_, came the quiet, confident answer. Allison wished she could be so certain of that. It wasn't that she didn't believe in her little brother. She knew what was in his heart. She knew he was a better person than he believed. But Lilith. . .Lilith still had a hold on him, damn her! She still had a hold on him, and Allison didn't know how to break the chains.

_You're right, Neda, we won't. She's just one, and we're four. . .five, if you want to count Juliet. And even by ourselves, we're a lot stronger than she is_, Sarah Larabee put in. Allison looked at the other woman. By now, she, and her mother, knew that Sarah's husband was in truth Vin Tanner's older brother, his half-brother. Something Chris Larabee found out quite by accident about twenty-five years earlier.

It was that revelation which led to Allison calling her mother's contemporary 'Aunt Sarah.' At that time, Allison and Sarah spent most of their time together, since Charlotte didn't join them until nine years later. Aunt Sarah continued, _She was well named. Lilith. First wife of Adam, and a night demon_. The hatred in her aunt's voice was palpable. . .just as strong as it was when she spoke of Ella Gaines, the woman who killed both Aunt Sarah and Adam.

Speaking of which. . .where was Adam? It took Allison a matter of moments to find her 'cousin.' Not surprisingly, while she and her mother were watching over Allison's younger brother, Adam was watching over his father. Chris was remarried now, and had five children with his second wife. They were happy. It made Adam happy. But she knew he missed growing up with his younger brothers and sisters.

With just a thought, Allison willed herself to Adam's side. He was chewing his lower lip thoughtfully, and said as she joined him, _Allie. . .shouldn't you be with the others_? Allison rolled her eyes and smacked him alongside his head. Adam glowered at her, but Allison ignored him. He knew better than to call her 'Allie.' She hated it, absolutely hated that nickname.

_Mother can watch over Luke and Elijah without me for a few moments. . .I wanted to see what you were doing. Are you still afraid that your father will join us prematurely_? Allison asked. Adam looked up with a half smile and shook his head. Allison continued, _Well, I'm glad to hear that. Considering he's. . .what? Sixty-nine or seventy at this point_?

_And your brother is thirty, _Adam pointed out quite reasonably_, but that has never stopped you from fearing for him_. Allison smacked him in the head again, and Adam blurted out, _HEY! That **hurts**_! Allison just put her hands on her hips, smirking at him. Adam muttered under his breath, _I don't know if you're more like your father or your mother_. Allison's eyes narrowed and she shoved her cousin to the ground.

_There is absolutely no need to act like that, Adam Christopher Larabee! I'm more like Mama, of course. . .he's my daddy, and I love him. I always will. But he has behaved absolutely awful. . .do you really think I would ever try to turn family against family_? Allison demanded. Adam looked away, as if he realized he went too far, but Allison was having none of that.

There would be a reckoning, between her mother and father. Maybe not today, but a reckoning would come. Two years earlier, after Lilith killed herself and Elijah found the suicide letter explaining all, Allison watched in horror as her father found her youngest brother and began to turn Elijah against Luke. Elijah was already angry with his older brother. . .conveniently ignoring, of course, that it takes two. Then again, the Richmond men had a habit of doing that.

And Allison wasn't trying to make excuses for Luke, any more than she made excuses for her father's behavior after her own death. . .or for her mother when Charlotte Richmond could endure no more coldness from the man who promised to love and cherish her, and sought comfort in the arms of another man. This wasn't about making excuses. It was about crossing lines, and her father did that repeatedly.

Never more so than when he found the mourning Elijah after Lilith's suicide. Long had Will Richmond known that Luke wasn't his child. It took him more than twenty-five years to catch up with the brothers. . .and when he did, he wasted little time poisoning Elijah's mind. Not only did Will Richmond tell his only remaining child that Luke was actually his half-brother, something Luke never felt comfortable in telling his brother. But he put everything bad that happened on Luke's shoulders. . .told his son that Luke was to blame for everything. And Elijah listened.

He wanted to believe. His heart was broken, and he wanted to know whom to blame. His grief turned to rage turned to hatred, and that would not be satiated until things were settled with Luke. One way or another. Elijah swearing revenge against their brother broke Allison's heart. . .hearing her father's laughter as Elijah departed for Europe nearly shattered her mother's sanity.

Because at no time, until Elijah left for Paris, was he left alone. Every day, Will Richmond's poisoned words dripped into his ear, reminding him that it was Luke's job to take care of Elijah, as the older brother. He was his brother's keeper. Luke seduced Lilith, seduced her, then abandoned her. Lilith was the innocent, pure as the driven snow. _That_ almost made Allison ill.

But wasn't it the same thing that her father did after her mother left with Vin Tanner? Responsibility could be shared, a lesson that Allison's father seemed to have forgotten. Will Richmond couldn't accept that he drove his young wife away with his neglect and his verbal abuse in the wake of their little girl's death. It was all Vin Tanner's fault. . .he stole Charlotte away. She didn't leave of her own free will, because she couldn't take any more. Will didn't drive her away. Tanner took her away.

And Allison repeated bitterly, _I am not my father. I would never do that. Turning family against family. . .no. And don't ever imply that again, Adam Larabee. Whatever mistakes my mother made, she was honestly trying to take care of my brothers. And she was tired of being treated like dirt by my father. How can I blame her for finding comfort in Vin Tanner's arms? Your uncle made her feel beautiful and cherished!_

_I'm sorry, Allison_, Adam replied, pushing himself to his feet. Allison backed away, eyeing him warily as he went on_, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that you were. . .I didn't mean to imply you were anything like that. My ma and pa would both skin me alive. I just meant that you don't always think before you speak, but maybe that's just being raised by your father. Luke does the same thing, and so does Elijah_.

Allison rubbed at her forehead, murmuring, _It doesn't matter. All that matters. . .I can't do anything for Elijah right now. He's not ready to listen to reason yet. Not yet, at least. He's mourning for both Luke and Lilith right now, and he's not ready. He's still too angry with Luke, still too angry with himself. I can only take care of Luke right now, and that's only because he's not aware of me taking care of him._

_I've noticed that. . .your brothers seem to have a problem with people taking care of them_, Adam murmured. Allison shot a look at him, privately thinking that Adam's own father was much the same way. And her companion ducked his head, admitting, _Then again, I can think of a lot of people that could describe, including my father. You need to be sneaky to get around Papa_.

He paused, then continued_, I think Juliet may be good for your brother. Luke, I mean. She doesn't ask him if he wants something done, she just does it. Sometimes, I think that's the best way for a woman to take care of a man. The only thing that I can't see is if he'll realize just how much he needs her. Right now, he's going forward because she's Neda's friend and he can't take care of Angela without her_.

Adam quirked the corners of his lips, adding, _Of course, there's also the matter of the other thing. Your brother's habit of shooting off his mouth. . .or his gun. . .first, and thinking later. How many more times do you think that will happen before he figures it out_? Allison just grinned ruefully and shook her head. Her younger brother was no different from anyone else in that respect. . .she knew a lot of people who shot off their mouths. . .or their guns. . .before engaging their brains. Men and women.

* * *

As Adam and Allison continued their conversation, Charlotte Richmond's youngest child was drinking himself senseless in a tavern. At least, that's what he thought they were called here. It was like this for the last three months, ever since Luke's death. He thought some of the pain would die with Luke, but it didn't. Instead, his brother's eyes haunted him. 

The shock, and yes, grief Elijah saw when he spat out that his wife was dead. . . Lilith was lost forever and her unborn child with her. While Elijah didn't kill his brother, he couldn't help feel guilty about it. Worse yet, the alcohol he consumed each night didn't dull the pain. Losing his wife nearly killed him. . .losing his brother hurt far worse. Because in the days since he said good-bye to his older brother, Elijah found himself remembering things he forgot a long time ago.

The warmth of his brother's hands on his shoulders as their mother was being buried. Luke's promise to take care of him. Until Lilith, that promise was never broken. Never. Lilith. . .Sarah. Elijah's father. Elijah's hand tightened around his bottle. Did Luke know that they had different fathers? Elijah always noticed the difference in coloring between them, but never really thought about it.

If anyone was born of an adulterous affair, Elijah would have thought that it would have been him. His own hair was much darker than either of his parents, but his father assured him that his maternal grandmother had dark hair. But Luke. . .Luke was the product of his mother's sinful desire for another man? Elijah didn't want to believe it. He was nine years old when his mother died, and he didn't want to believe that the woman whom he so adored was capable of betraying his father like that.

But. . .there was Lilith. She betrayed him with his own brother. _Tell you a secret, little brother. . . once a whore, always a whore_. Luke's mocking words rang in his mind, followed by his father's take, _He's got tainted blood, boy. His father was the same way. Took your mother away from me. Got no respect for the sacred vows between a man and a woman. Charlotte and me, we were happy 'fore Vin Tanner came along. Yeah, we had us some rough times, but who doesn't?_

But. . .was that the truth? Elijah, though his mind was muddled with drink, thought about his mother while he was growing up. Never did she seem sorry that she left their. . ._his_ father. In fact, there was always fear in her eyes when she spoke of him. Fear in his mother's eyes, and outright hatred in Luke's. Elijah didn't remember his father. He was no more than a few months old when his mother took him and Luke away from the settlement, Heaven on Earth. He remembered nothing.

When he asked Luke why he hated their father so much, Luke's simple response was typical of him. _He made Mama cry. He hit her, and he made her cry_. To his then-thirteen year old brother, that was the only reason he needed to give, and it was good enough for eight year old Elijah as well. He hit their mother and made her cry. That was a bad thing to do. And he didn't ask again.

Nearly twenty years later, the two truths warred with each other, because there was no doubt that both men believed exactly what they said. Elijah shook his head, trying desperately to clear it. What was the truth? An image flashed in his mind, of the dark-haired American woman who refused to allow him to take the child home with him. He wanted. . .wanted to finish what his brother started, he guessed.

Elijah thought in the beginning that the dark-haired woman was one of the villagers, until she spoke to him in American-accented English. She wasn't from the Southwest. . .more like the East Coast. And upper class. Elijah spent enough traveling during the last two years to know an upper class accent. What she was doing here, he had no idea. And she wasn't inclined to explain it to him, either.

She didn't like him. He didn't realize then, but he saw it now. Why didn't she like him? They never met. But he could hear it in her voice, could see it in her eyes. _Why is it your brother's fault that your wife killed herself_? When he told her about Lilith's death, she arched an eyebrow and asked, _So your wife couldn't make up her mind before she married which brother she wanted? Seems to me there's plenty of blame to go around. Or is that the problem? Your wife is dead, so you can't blame her?_

Strangely enough, there was sadness in her eyes as she made the last statement. Not disgust or contempt. But sadness. Elijah sighed, burying his head in his arms. He wished Luke was here. It wasn't like their mother, who would hold Elijah and tell him everything would be all right. But Luke was all he had left. His father was an old man, and who knew how much longer he would be around?

Luke was someone solid and real, someone who, up until two years earlier, was always there for him. Even if he didn't have comforting words, he was there. And up until now, as Elijah tried to remember exactly why he wanted to kill his brother, the younger brother never realized how much he missed that. Just the knowledge that Luke would be there.

_You were supposed to be my keeper_, Elijah told his brother during their last confrontation. He repeated those words to the American girl, and got another disgusted glance. As if he said something incredibly childish. The old woman, the one who told him that an hour after death, one's true face was revealed. . .she told him why the girl looked at him that way. She had a younger sibling as well. . .a younger sister. And her younger sister considered herself the elder's keeper. Just as surely as the elder was the keeper of the younger. _They take care of each other_, the old woman told him in Greek.

But that was different. They were women. . .that was what women did. Even at the brothel, the Cherry Orchard, he saw it. The women in the cathouse took care of each other. Lilith told him that. With men, it was different. The old woman just shook her head, as if at a foolish child, then wandered off, muttering under her breath. But it was true. It was the responsibility of the older brother to take care of the younger. Papa said so. He said so, and he said that Luke failed him.

Who was telling him the truth? Elijah didn't know. He didn't know, he was barely able to hold onto a coherent thought, and his head ached unbearably. He paid for his drink, then staggered to his room. He stayed here for the last three months. It was maybe a four day ride from the village where Luke died, from where he found his brother for the last time.

He rode as far as he could after looking at his brother one last time. For two years, he followed the trail left for him. It didn't surprise him that his brother fell in with the worst of the worst. What did surprise him was when his conscience pricked at him, after leaving his brother barely conscious. What surprised him further was that when he went back, he found Luke gone. Knowing that Luke was injured, and that Luke had to have turned around, Elijah went back in that general direction.

It was there that he found his brother dead. His brother. . .his self-centered older brother. . .sacrified his life trying to protect a pregnant woman. His sacrifice was and was not in vain, for while the woman, Neda, died, her daughter survived. Elijah wanted to take the little girl to the States with him and raise her. . .but the old woman rightly pointed out that he was one man. How would he take care of a child? And besides, he was told the American girl lost her own child.

She would be the one who took care of the orphaned child. The motherless child and the childless mother. So Elijah would have to find his healing elsewhere. Exhausted, he fell into bed. But even as he closed his eyes, his brother continued to haunt him. Luke's voice echoed in his mind, '_Why'd you shoot me_?' The only answer Elijah had wasn't an answer. '_I don't know_.'

* * *

_I don't know what I'm doing_. 

That was what circled in Juliet's mind as she kept watch and ate some of the bread they brought with them. Luke fought sleep, as he fought everything else in his life. She wondered if he knew how to do anything else. That wasn't true, nor was it true. She watched him with Angela. . .if anything was worthy of her questions, it was that. How did a mercenary learn how to take care of a child? Juliet shook her head.

He wasn't always a mercenary. After all, mercenaries were made. They weren't born. Psychology was still in its infancy, but that conclusion seemed like common sense to Juliet. Mercenaries were made, men weren't born mercenaries. And he had a younger brother. The trouble was, from what she learned during the last three years, it required a particular mentality, being a mercenary or a bounty hunter. Yes, she took a life. But there was a difference between killing to protect another and. . .

Not that her father would have understood such a distinction. Taking a life was taking a life was taking a life. There was no difference between the reasons. Taking a life was never an acceptable thing to do. They were civilized people, and therefore above such behavior. It was better to die than to kill. Once, Juliet believed that way. Now? Now she wasn't sure what she believed. For that matter, she wasn't sure if she believed in anything. She wasn't even sure how she felt about killing that soldier.

During the last few months, Juliet stopped really thinking about anything. She was afraid of examining anything too closely. Afraid of what she might learn. And she really didn't want to think about the soldier that she killed. Did he ever think about those whom he killed, that soldier? Did Luke? For weeks now, she focused on those whom she helped to save. She focused on Angela, and on Luke.

But right now, neither of them needed her. Angela was asleep, and so was Luke. She was alone. No one there to distract her. She didn't want to think about the man she killed. And yet, his face was there. In front of her. His face forever frozen in a mask of surprise and pain. Juliet shuddered, whispering, "I did. I killed him. And I'd do it again. I would." What did that make her?

Thatfrightened her. Wasn't she supposed to feel sick that she took the life of another? Why did she feel nothing? Juliet shuddered again. What was wrong with her, that she felt nothing? No joy. No sorrow. No relief. She felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. There was a terrible numbness in the center of her chest, one that she ignored ever since Neda died.

When she awakened in the village for the first time, after the Teacher and his men rescued her from the mercenaries, she felt as she did now. Cold inside. Her child was dead. Her husband was dead. She knew that she was supposed to feel. . .something. Some anger, some grief. But her soul was too shattered for her to feel anything. It wasn't until Luke brought up Bruce that her anger exploded.

Why? Why, when she began admitting in her heart that the Teacher was right? Because deep in her heart, there was a part of her that believed what Luke said. Why did Bruce not defend her? Did he think she was not worth it? And in the end, wasn't that what Luke was saying? That Bruce died just to get away from her, that Bruce would have rather died than remain married to her?

It was a childish way to look at it, but if Juliet was truthful, the little girl she was once remained within her. In that respect, she was not so very different from Luke. She began to realize, while he was talking about his mother, that in some ways, he remained the fourteen year old boy he was when his mother died. The same was true of her. There was a part of Juliet that never grew up after her own mother died.

The more mature way of looking at it, of course, was that Bruce didn't know how to defend himself and his wife. But even if that were true. . .couldn't he have protested when those vile animals ran their hands down her body? Couldn't he have at least told them to stop touching her, instead of just standing there? Why did he think she wasn't worth defending, why did he think she wasn't worth protecting?

And they were drifting away from the original topic. . .about the soldier. But Juliet didn't want to think about him. Instead, she looked at Luke, who was sleeping on his good side. Ever so often, he would moan softly in his sleep or murmur something. She couldn't hear what he said, and maybe that was for the best. Did she want to know what he dreamed about? Juliet really didn't think so.

Instead, she thought about what he said to her, shortly before he fell asleep. If they saw the group that raped her while they were on the road, he wanted to know about it. She hoped they never saw those men. She would be pleased if she never saw their faces again. At the same time, Juliet was well aware of what Luke would say, if she told him that. She could just hear him saying, '_oh, but I hope we do_!' Yes, that was exactly what he would say. And he would kill them. Every last one of them.

Which meant that Neda was right. Yet again. As much as Juliet loved her, there were times when Neda's tendency to be right drove her insane. Neda told her that if Luke claimed her, he would protect her. He already vowed to do just that, when he told her that he would avenge what was done to her three years earlier. '_Ya just don't do that to a woman when she's with child_,' he had said, almost trembling with rage.

She still wondered if he thought there was an acceptable time to rape a woman, but couldn't bring herself to ask that. It occurred to her that it was ironic. This mercenary, member of a profession she still considered to be scum of the earth, this mercenary was willing to defend her soiled honor and avenge her fall from grace. The same honor her husband failed to defend. The same honor her husband didn't think was worth defending, and she was his _wife_.

"Why would you do that?" she asked the sleeping man in a voice barely above a whisper, "why would you defend a woman you barely know, against your brothers-in-arms? A woman you don't even like?" Although, she had to admit, he was thawing. They both were, although 'thawing' was perhaps the wrong word to use with Luke. He was fire and she was ice. If anyone was thawing, it was her.

"Ya didn't deserve what they done to ya," came a soft, unexpected reply. Juliet jolted and stared at Luke, who was staring up at her. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but they were open. She started to apologize, but he continued, "I told ya. I ain't a good man. But yer one a' mine now, and ain't no way somethin' like that's gonna happen to ya again."

Juliet didn't know what to say to that. And it wasn't necessary, for Luke continued, "It don't matter how much I try to run away, ya know? Neda's always there. And so are you. Yer one a' mine now, Jules. You and Angela. If we find them on the road, I'll make sure they don't rape another woman, pregnant or not. They ain't never gonna hurt another woman like that."

Well. That answered that question. They were both silent a long time. Juliet observed Luke through lowered lashes. His face contorted as he talked, and she could see the struggle in his eyes. He didn't want this responsibility. He didn't want the responsibility of protecting and avenging a woman. But it was like Sophronia said. He couldn't go back to the way he was before. Neither of them could.

And it was that knowledge that led Juliet to say quietly, "Get some sleep, Luke. I'm sorry I woke you up. I. . .I just realized that I killed someone and I don't know how I feel about that. I suppose that sounds silly to you. But. . .I should feel something. Sick, or something. But I don't, and I don't know what's wrong with me." She shook her head, biting her lower lip. Much to her surprise, she felt a warm hand on her knee.

"There ain't nothin' wrong with ya, Jules. It just don't seem real, is all. Don't mean that yer like me. Ya ain't. Yer good. Like Neda. And it don't sound silly.Kept watch long enough. I put the horses behind the house. We'll be all right here. Go back to sleep," Luke urged in a sleepy voice. Juliet was inclined to think that he wasn't fully awake. But she slipped down beside Angela, and draped a protective arm over the little girl. Luke was right. She was still very tired. It wouldn't hurt if she dozed for a little while, would it? Of course not.

She ended up sleeping another nine hours. So much for just dozing.


	6. Intersecting Paths

Contrary to popular belief, I haven't given up on this story. Between my uncle's (second) heart attack, the holidays, and having Ian Howe, Alec Trevelyan, Boromir, Faramir, Luke, and half a dozen others in my head, it just took me a little while longer to get this chapter done.

However. . .Ian and Alec, the two worst offenders, have been placated with their own stories, that will go up shortly (Ian's story will come out first). Hopefully now that Alec has his own story, he will shut up when I'm trying to work with Luke.

I also have a happy announcement to make. While I don't have a job yet, I think it's just a matter of days at this point. And. . .I just found out, about a month ago, that my sister-in-law is pregnant. My new niece or nephew (Peanut until he/she is born, at which time, he/she will be either Andrew Chase or Sabrina Dawn) will be arriving at the end of July or the beginning of August. YEA!!!!!!!

Reviews:

Rosie: I kept my promise this time! Here's the new chapter, just as I promised.

Marie: I am, indeed, still working on the story. Not only do you find out more about Luke, Juliet, and Angela and their journey, but more information is provided about Amy and her family.

Illaris: Yup, Luke was a mite too talkative in the last couple of chapters, wasn't he? However, an explanation for this will be provided here. I think I see Luke in a slightly different light. . .while I write the changes in him, I keep flashing back to his struggles when he first 'came back from the dead,' and Angela's observations about how hard he fought his demons. Unfortunately, he keeps trying to push the story ahead faster than it should be moving, so we'll likely be fighting back and forth for a while. I'm actually far more concerned with Juliet capturing Luke's attention, because he's certainly got hers! While Angela is, of course, her top priority. . .when she's not watching over Angela, Juliet is watching Luke. I'll try to keep the story from getting away from me (I won't even attempt to control Luke. It ain't possible).

Terreis: NOW you see why I kept blathering on about Luke, and this movie. Spooty Bruce, indeed, and just wait 'til you see what Luke plans to do to Juliet's rapists. And he _will_ get his opportunity. If not in this chapter, then the one after it. Elijah will, of course, cause trouble for a while yet. He's actually the hardest character to write, because I'm struggling to look through his eyes and be fair to him.

Calling the Wind

Chapter Five

Intersecting Paths

"Git up. Time to go."

With those words, Juliet fell out of her warm, cozy cocoon of sleep. She sat up, to find Luke moving restlessly about the room. He scowled at her, and left the house. Juliet tried to shake off her sleepiness. Half of her objected to Luke's attitude, and the other half didn't want to deal with this. At all. That half of her won out, and she pushed herself to her feet.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bedroll this morning," she muttered, rubbing her hand over her face. _Night_, she corrected herself, seeing outside the house. It was night. . .and he was right, it was time to move on. Angela was lying on the ground, asleep, and Juliet picked her up before Luke forgot where he was walking. She continued, placing the baby on the table where she could check her swaddling clothes and put her into the sling, "Well, we'll ride together, and ignore him, hmm?"

She half-suspected she knew what happened. Luke said a bit more than what he was comfortable with the night before, and now he was regretting saying anything. In his exhaustion, his guard dropped. Juliet mumbled, "Afraid someone might mistake him for being a human being, it would seem." She wasn't being fair to him and she knew it, but right now, she wasn't in the best of moods either.

What was she thinking, traveling with this man? _Oooh, I don't know_, said a sarcastic voice that sounded eerily like her younger sister, _maybe you were thinking that you, and Angela, needed his protection? Maybe you were thinking that a woman and a child alone in the night would be a very bad thing? Stop being such a dolt, sister, and get moving. Moonlight is wasting!_

Yes, that was exactly what Drusilla would say, and even worse, she would be right. Luke was a maddening man. . .ice cold killer, but there was more to him. Juliet was too bright to think she could heal him, and the part of her that was still Bruce's wife was appalled at the idea of even trying. There was another part of her which told her that it wasn't her place to heal him, or fix him. . .if she did that, she would run the risk of becoming like her father. Something she absolutely didn't want.

"Well, little lady," she murmured as she finished securing Angela in her sling, "let's get moving. We have a long of ground to cover, and Luke's impatient to be gone." Now that she thought about it, there was something in the air tonight that bothered her as well. Something that felt not quite right. Maybe it was the knowledge they should have been on the road the night before.

Yet another change in her since her arrival in Macedonia three years earlier. She was a modern woman, she believed in logic and rationality. Listening to instincts was for people who had no education. Juliet knew better now. She used her education, yes, but she also used her instincts. Something she was never taught while she was growing up. . .reason and rationality only worked when dealing with a person of reason.

The trick, she learned, was in knowing when to reason and when to listen to instinct. She could reason with the Teacher, with Neda. Luke, she wasn't as certain of. There were times when she could reason with him, and other times when his masculine pride (or his trigger finger), overrode his good sense, and in all honesty, she wasn't entirely sure if his male pride and his trigger finger weren't one and the same.

And right now, her instincts were warning her that something was terribly wrong. Right now, her instincts were saying that they needed to get out of her quickly. She hurried her steps, and the feeling grew stronger. Her companion re-entered, his eyes darting around the room. Juliet caught Luke's eye, and for the first time, noticed something other than the scowl she saw when she first woke up. Fear. Luke was afraid, and that made Juliet afraid in turn. He left the room once more.

Uneasy, Juliet checked around, to make sure they didn't leave a trail behind. Satisfied that Luke had everything, Juliet scampered outside, to find him arranging the saddle bags. He turned to face her, his features grim in the moonlight. Again, Juliet shuddered. There was something terribly wrong. Was it the night? Traveling at night? That was when she and Bruce were captured. A touch on her arm startled her, and she jumped. Luke glowered at her, and she realized he meant to help her onto the horse.

It was only practical, of course. If she fell, she would take Angela with her. That could not be permitted. This time, when Luke took her elbow, she didn't move, and instead, allowed him to help her into the saddle. She tried not to wonder if his hand wasn't staying in the small of her back a second longer than it really had to. Something was terribly wrong. They had to go, _now_.

If she felt it, Justinian must have felt it as well. Animals sensed these things. That was why her father, and her teachers, insisted upon logic and rationality. Animals existed by their instinct. . .men by their rationality. Civilized men, at least. _Yes, Father_, she thought now, leaning over to take Angela from Luke's arms, _and my civilized husband is now three years dead, along with my daughter. _

With Angela safely in Juliet's arms, Luke moved swiftly to his own mount. Neither spoke. Instead, Luke kicked his horse into a trot. Juliet swallowed hard, and nudged Justinian forward. She fought now her instinct to flee blindly from this place. If something was coming, they would only draw undue attention to them by fleeing. Besides, there was Angela to consider. She was only three months old, and babies were not meant to be carried on a horse's back.

With a whisper to her tiny charge, Juliet followed Luke. The next several hours flew past as they continued their journey away from the village where Luke and Juliet died and were reborn. Juliet occupied herself with Angela's comfort, and mentally reviewing the events of the previous day. She awoke in the early morning hours. There was that rather. . .peculiar. . .exchange with Luke.

She wondered if he still had medicines in his body from his recovery, because that entire conversation bordered on the bizarre. That was the only explanation she could find for his odd behavior. Including him calling her 'Jules,' something he never called her before. In fact, come to think of it, he never called her by name in the past. Usually, it was 'Miz Walker,' if they talked at all. She couldn't remember him ever calling her 'Juliet' or 'Jules' until the night before.

In any event, she remembered going back to sleep. . .waking briefly when the sun was still out. Luke was again changing Angela's nappy, muttering under his breath about how such a little thing could make such a huge mess. She was awake just long enough to murmur something to the effect of, 'it gets worse.' She saw his horrified expression, then smiling, Juliet went back to sleep.

That was the last thing she remembered before her final awakening earlier. She supposed she was lucky Luke didn't awaken her with his boot in her ribs. So focused was she on putting the pieces together and seeing to Angela, she didn't notice the passage of the time. Not until Luke drew his horse to a halt. He was slightly ahead of her, giving her enough time to halt Justinian as well. And it was then that Juliet discovered the reason for her uneasy feeling.

Luke was staring at something just over her shoulder, face settling into familiar grim lines. Juliet turned, so that she could see whatever he was seeing, and gasped in horror. Back in the direction they came burned a huge fire. Entirely too big for a campfire, or even a bonfire. She choked out, "Is that where. . .?" She couldn't finish the sentence. Luke shook his head, his eyes never leaving the horrific sight.

"Nah. But we're only a few hours ahead of 'em. C'mon, girl," Luke answered tersely. Juliet's arms tightened around the baby, but resolutely turned her face forward. She wanted to go down, wanted to go back and help those poor people, as she was positive it was a village being burned. However, she didn't know if there were any survivors, and her first priority had to be Angela.

They rode on, the silence stretching with every mile they traveled. Angela remained blissfully asleep. . .how she did that, Juliet didn't know. The child had an uncanny sense of when she or Luke was troubled, and that in turn led to her fussing. But she fussed very little, and slept a lot. However, Juliet knew there would be a mess in her nappies when they stopped for the night. . .for the day.

They maintained a steady pace, and as the hours passed, Juliet noticed that some of the tension left Luke's shoulders. He was the only thing in front of her, all there was to look at.. Not that she was complaining about looking, but she wanted at least to have a reasonable explanation if Luke decided to take offense. He was so damnably unpredictable, it might be necessary.

In time, however, it was no longer necessary to watch him, as her own body began making its displeasure known at the long riding, and the equally long sleep. A deep ache was settling in her right hip, and she bit on her lower lip to quell the pain, or at least distract her from the more pressing sensation, that was spreading to the small of her back. Fatigue was setting in now, for she really wasn't accustomed to such long riding.

Why this was happening now, rather than the first day of their journey, she didn't know. She would have thought that would have happened earlier, but. . . A glance at her companion told her that Luke was alert but somewhat relaxed. At least, as relaxed as he couldget. On the other hand, he spent a lot more time in the saddle than she did. Juliet's eyes narrowed at that thought.

It was possible that he would know some secrets to being a little more comfortable in the saddle. However, that would require talking to him, and she really didn't feel like doing that. Juliet was uncomfortably aware that she was displaying the attitude of a petulant fourteen year old child, but there were times when Luke brought out the worst in her. This was one such time and she had the uneasy sense that it would get worse before it got better.

She glared at his back. Damn him! Unfortunately, she was just as angry with herself for being so stupid as she was with him for being so stiff-necked. She thought that their exchange the night before might have changed things between them. And they did. Just not in the way she anticipated. Not in the way she hoped. It was Juliet's instinct that Luke would shut her out now, now until. . .later.

It should have never upset her. But she saw gentleness in him the night before, a gentleness and a ferocity that brought Neda's words back to her. _He would have protected you, my friend_, Neda said when Juliet learned that Luke was a mercenary, and wanted to kill the newcomer herself. _He is not the same as your faithless husband_. As ever, those words cut through any barriers that Juliet might have put up.

She knew now, that Neda was right. She realized when Luke wanted her to point out the men who raped her and killed her child that Neda was right. And maybe that was why the barriers, so weakened the day before, were back up and twice as powerful. Perhaps. But she was growing far too tired to think a great deal. The ache in her right hip and the small of her back was spreading up her spine and into her shoulders.

Luke must have been tiring as well. As dawn approached, he began turning his head this way and that. It was her guess that he was looking for shelter. He nodded a bit grimly to himself, then headed his horse off the road. Juliet, too tired to ask questions and not even sure if it mattered any longer, followed him. They came to a small cottage, nestled off the road. Juliet stared at it dumbly as Luke drew his horse to a stop.

As silent as he was during this entire day's journey, he dismounted and walked back to Justinian, holding his hands out. Exhausted, Juliet could only stare at him for a long moment, then it hit her. He wanted her to hand Angela down to him. With an effort that left her grimacing, she slid the sling from her shoulder and down into Luke's arms. With Angela safely off the horse, Juliet slumped forward, closing her eyes She didn't even bother to check if Luke went inside with the baby.

She didn't know. She didn't care. She was too tired. She was. . .being carried inside? The startled young woman opened her eyes, to find Luke's face only inches from her own. He carried her to a bed, easing her down until her back hit something warm and soft. Luke stared down at her a moment longer, then said, "Stay here. I'll get everythin' in." And then he was gone once more.

Angela cooed at her side, and Juliet turned to face the little girl, tenderly stroking one petal-soft cheek. She whispered, "He certainly likes to keep us guessing, doesn't he, sweetheart? Thing is, I'm not entirely sure if he even realizes what he's doing. I think he loved your mama. . .I know he was attracted to her, and why not? She was beautiful and kind. I, on the other hand, am neither beautiful nor kind."

She felt silent, thinking about that for a few moments. No, she wasn't beautiful, and she knew she wasn't kind. She didn't have the strength to be kind to anyone except those who were kind to her first. Juliet murmured, "Sometimes, I think it would have been better if I died with my Abigail. I never even had the chance to hold her, did I ever tell you that? I never held her. . .never saw what she looked like, though Neda told me she was beautiful. My baby girl."

Her voice caught on her words, and Juliet pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, trying desperately to keep from crying. Again, Luke's words repeated in her mind. 'Ya don't do that to a woman when she's with child.' Did he mean to say that? More to the point, did he mean that? Yes. . .yes, she thought he did mean that. But she was too tired for the words to matter to her right now. Tears trickling down her cheeks, she tucked her head next to Angela's and let go.

* * *

She was in no shape to be doing much of anything. Luke, who spent a good part of his life on horseback, could see that. He carried Angela inside, before the woman took a header off the horse and killed herself and the baby. Once Angela was settled, he went back outside to find his traveling companion hunched over the head of her horse. Luke stared at her for a moment, but couldn't leave her there.

He eased her feet from the stirrups, somewhat alarmed when she never even woke up. Once he was sure she wouldn't get her ankles twisted, he eased her from the back of the horse. Keeping one arm around her waist and sliding the other under her knees, he carried her inside. Her eyes flickered as he reached the door, but she made not a sound. He deposited her on the bed beside Angela, with the curt instructions to stay put.

It took him only a few trips to bring everything inside that they would need, then he led the animals around back. No point in drawing attention to them, after all. Once he took care of the two horses, Luke returned to the house. Both Angela and the woman were sleeping, though he could see tear tracks on the woman's face. Luke swallowed hard, and turned his attention to shaking out his bedroll.

He couldn't bring himself to think of her by her first name. Not after making a fool out of himself the night before. No, he didn't even want to think about it. So, instead, he finished smoothing out the bedroll, then stalked to the window. He stared out into the night intently, eyeing the fire in the distance with trepidation. He didn't like the looks of that. The Major was dead, yeah, but he wasn't the only one.

And Luke had no intention of freeing more villages. He had to get the woman and Angela to the coast, at the very least. He promised the woman that he would remain with them until they reached the States again. . .Luke wouldn't break his promise. He glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping pair on the bed. Like it or not, they were his responsibility now, and to hell with everyone else.

He stared out the window once more, gazing at the burning village in the distance. As dawn broke over Macedonia, it was growing more and more difficult to see the flames. But Luke could still see where the village was. The smoke was a giveaway. . .he figured the soldiers were a day or two behind them. As curt as he was with the woman, it was his own damn fault. He should have insisted on them leaving the night before.

But he didn't know that much about traveling with a woman, much less a baby. He swore to protect Angela, and they couldn't afford to ride as fast as he wanted to. She was too fragile to be on the back of a galloping horse. And the woman. . .hell, she was trying to keep up and not drag them all behind. She didn't complain during the journey, though Luke sensed one or two poisonous glances from her during the last night.

Poisonous glares didn't worry him. . .so long as it was just poisonous glares, and not poisoned knives. While he was always quick and accurate with his gun, Luke knew more than one way of killing. He picked up a few things before picking up a gun for the first time. . .including dipping the edge of a knife into poison. His ma told him once that she learned a good bit from his real father.

_The apple doesn't fall far from the tree_, he heard more than once while he was growing up, and Luke knew it was true in his case. He was his father's son. Like him, his father made his living with his gun. But while Luke was a mercenary, his father was a bounty hunter. . .and from his position, there wasn't a whole lot of difference between the two. In the eyes of his mother, Luke's father was all things good in the world.

Sure. Just as long as you ignored that he abandoned the mother of his child, and the child himself. Just like Luke did himself. Was he Sarah's father? Was he the father of Lilith's second child? He would never know, and right now, he was too worried about the soldiers to think much about Lilith and her death. Luke turned away from the window wearily, to find the woman regarding him quietly.

They stared at each other for a long moment, then Luke said brusquely, "Go back to sleep. It ain't even daybreak yet." There was a flash of hurt in her dark eyes, but she shrugged and lay back down beside Angela. Luke checked around the house once more, to make sure the horses were well-hidden and there was nothing to draw the attention of the soldiers if they passed by.

Once his mind was set at ease, he returned to his bedroll and lay down, barely suppressing a groan as his shoulder protested. Hellfire, that hurt! If he and Elijah did meet up, he'd kick his younger brother's ass for this! There was a sigh from the bed, and the woman said, "If you keep your smart ass remarks to yourself, I could take a look at that shoulder for you." Luke smirked in spite of himself.

"Well now, that ain't a very lady-like thing to say," he mocked. There was a growl, barely bit back to avoid waking Angela, a squeaking sound, then the sound of feet hitting the ground. Footfall alerted him that the woman left her bed, and he hissed, "What the hell do ya think yer doin,' woman? Git yer ass back in bed, before I. . ." He had no more time to say anything, because she was kneeling down beside him and she slapped his face. Hard.

Before he had a chance to react to that, she pushed him back against the bedroll, pressing her knee into the middle of his chest. The woman snarled, "Shut up, before I decide to shoot you in your other shoulder." Seeing her expression, and remembering that she wore the same expression when she pulled his own gun on him, Luke did as he said. Besides, he couldn't help admiring her for that.

The woman muttered under her breath as her small, somewhat roughened fingers carefully examined his shoulder. Luke allowed his head to drop back against the bedroll, as she murmured, "You men, I swear. . .it's no wonder we women constantly have to sew you up. Not only can you not stay away from a fight, but you don't even have the sense to take care of your injuries."

He glared at her, and started to return fire, but she pressed his shoulder and this time, Luke couldn't hold back his groan of pain. Her head snapped up, and she studied his face for several moments. At last, she said, "Stay put. . .Sophronia put some lotion in my saddlebags. It'll make your shoulder ache a little less." Luke stilled. His pride warred with the pain, and lost.

Once she was sure that he would remain still, she scampered over to where he deposited the saddlebags. Luke remained still, but muttered under his breath, "Damn bossy woman." He abruptly fell silent as something whizzed past his head. Best not to anger her further. He already knew what happened when he pushed her too far, and being shot once was bad enough.

As she returned to his side, she returned, "Damn annoying man. And don't tell me that's not ladylike. . .I've not been a lady for three years." Luke flinched. One thing he did mean the previous night. . .if he ever got his hands on the brother mercenaries who raped a pregnant girl, he'd gut 'em and hang 'em high. Neda's death was still far too fresh in his mind. . .her death and what they would have done to her.

Both were silent as she slowly worked the cream into his shoulder. Luke sighed, closing his eyes. He didn't want to admit it, but it really did feel a helluva lot better. The woman said softly, "Once I was strong enough, after they rescued me. . .Sophronia had me helping her with the injuries of the men who returned with the Teacher. It was very basic. She would set the broken bones, and I would hold the injured men."

Luke didn't know what to say to that, and she continued after a moment, "I had this huge, gaping hole where my soul used to be. I suppose I was trying to put the pieces of myself back together, because I volunteered for anything, any duty that needed to be done. I needed to. . .I needed something that would distract me. Whether it was holding injured boys, changing bandages, or washing dirty linens. . .it didn't matter."

In spite of himself, and in spite of telling himself that he didn't give a damn, Luke still heard himself asking, "Why didn't ya go home sooner?" The woman stopped with what she was doing, her face stilling. Luke opened his mouth, not sure if he meant to tell her that she didn't have to tell him, or if something else would have come out. However, the woman shook her hair out of her eyes.

"Because I couldn't bear to go home then. I was raped, Luke, and my husband was dead. I am no longer a member of polite society, and I know my father would never accept me. It's taken me this long to stop caring. Not about being part of polite society. Polite society hid behind their hands and judged my mother for having another child when her first child. . .me. . .almost killed her. But for too many years, I wanted my father's love and approval," she replied.

Luke was on the point of saying something more, when she replaced the cap on the cream, and returned it to the saddlebags. She looked at him directly, and said quietly, "Go to sleep, Luke. We both had a long ride today, and we both need to rest." With that, she rose to her feet and returned the saddlebag to its place. After a moment, Luke heard her moving back to the bed.

However, long after her breathing evened out, and she fell asleep, Luke remained awake. He thought about what she said about her father, and what was done to her. There were times when Luke relished his reputation as a mean bastard. It meant people left his ma and Elijah alone. And then there were times like now, when he thought about what he would do to the woman's rapists. Yeah. Guttin' 'em was too good. He thought about what he would do to them, until he fell asleep.

* * *

After the ashes were scattered on the wind, lightly dusting her mother's grave, Angela's remaining family left the town where she was born, and Amy drove to the hotel where she would be staying for the next few days. It took only a brief conversation to change the arrangements, that would allow Edge to stay with her, then the weary pair trudged upstairs.

Amy stopped the story while they made their way to the room they would share. For one, she was tired, and for another, she wanted no interruptions when she continued the story of Luke and Juliet's journey across Macedonia. They still had to eat, and she wanted to call her great-aunt in Texas. Her cousin Rusty was due in from Australia, to check over the books for the LJ Ranch.

"Eat now or later?" she asked as she unlocked the door and wearily pushed the door open. Edge made a grunting noise which Amy interrupted to mean, 'later, after I sleep,' and she pushed him toward the bed. He collapsed on it gratefully, doing a somewhat graceful face-plant. Amy stifled a grin, and said, "Rest. I need to call my Aunt Annette, let her know I got here safely."

There was another grunt, and Amy turned her attention to the phone, puzzling out the time distance from here to Texas. Once she was satisfied that she wouldn't wake up anyone, or give her poor aunt a heart attack, Amy dialed the number, taking note of the directions for international calls. On the third ring, a somewhat breathless, Australian-accent voice answered, "LJ Ranch, this is Rusty."

"Hey cousin, wasn't sure if you'd be in yet or not!" Amy greeted, sitting on the floor and folding up her legs. There was a brief silence, then a yelp, and Amy covered her mouth with her hand. Ten to one, Rusty and Lacey were at it again. Then again, whenever they were together, that was to be expected. Either Rusty had to move to Texas, full time, or Lacey had to move to Australia, because the family couldn't take much more of this. Those two could write a book on unresolved sexual tension!

After a moment, the last member of the Three Musketeers, as they were called while growing up, said cheerfully, "Hi Amy. . .hope our little tussle didn't keep you waitin' long, but Rusty wasn't of a mind t' give up the phone." Lacey had a slight Irish accent, which was to be expected after spending six months in country. It would take no time at all for her to regain her natural Texan accent.

"I'm fine, and how are you, Lacey?" Amy laughed. She relaxed back against the bed, glad to be talking to the female closest in age to herself. It was Lacey, Diana, and herself while they were growing up at the LJ Ranch. Rusty was added to the ranks when he came from Australia for a visit, while they were teenagers, and he and Lacey had been making each other miserable ever since.

"Just about t' box Rusty's ears, if he's not careful. Annoyin' little pain," her cousin retorted, and Amy held back a laugh. Rusty was anything but 'little,' at a notch over six feet, especially considering that Lacey was only about five two or five three in her bare feet. However, Rusty could most assuredly be a pain. Then again, so could Lacey, and she knew it. The other girl continued, "So, you're there? Meet any guys?"

"As a matter of fact, I did. He was in the seat next to mine, and it was his first time flying. Whenever we hit a patch of turbulence, he would grab my hand," Amy replied, recalling the flight with now-fond memories. She paused, then continued, "It gets better, Lace. It seems that he's a sort-of cousin. He and Angela adopted each other. He was going to Macedonia to scatter her ashes."

"Angela's dead, then? Do you want me t' tell Aunt Annette?" Lacey asked soberly, all hint of laughter gone from her voice. Amy inhaled, then sighed. That was a good question. When she returned to Texas, she didn't want to mar her homecoming with this news. On the other hand, she didn't want responsibility to pass to her cousin. It wasn't fair to Lacey. Her cousin, however, said, "Amy. . .I'll do it. Tell me more."

"Well, you know how our family tends to acknowledge new members with dreams?" Amy asked. There was an assent from the other end of the line, and Amy explained, "That family tradition is being kept alive. I'll tell you what I can, but honestly, Lace, some things will have to wait until I get to Texas. I just know that Edge, Angela's sort-of adopted grandson, had a dream about Luke."

A low whistle sounded from her cousin, and Lacey asked, "So, Luke approves of Angela's decision? Well, I'm not sure if this is a good thin' or a bad thin,' especially with a name like 'Edge.' Damn. Do you know how she died?" Amy twisted the phone cord around her finger, staring at nothing in particular. Lacey added after a moment, "I guess it could just be old age. Angela was well past ninety, after all."

"Yeah, she was. . .I think her heart finally went. She was telling Edge about Luke before she died. I guess Edge reminded her of Luke," Amy explained to her cousin. She paused, then said softly, "I just. . .I don't want to tell Aunt Annette that Angela's gone. No more second chances. And I don't want to push the responsibility onto you, either. That's not fair to you."

"Fair, shmair! You're in Macedonia, I'm in Texas, and they always say that you shouldn't give bad news over the telephone. I'll tell her. And it isn't like we're talking about Aunt Faye or Gramma. Angela lost contact wi' Aunt Annette because she felt guilty, not because Aunt Annette never forgave her," Lacey retorted, and Amy smiled in spite of herself. Trust Lacey.

Relationships, in general, were a two-way street, she said more than once. And while Aunt Annette long since forgave Angela for her cruel words back in the 1920's, the rest of the family found it much harder to forgive. Amy's own grandmother Faye was the longest hold-out. She was ferociously protective of her mother, and indeed, it was Faye who helped her dying mother let go at the end.

Annette was the baby of the family, too young to remember the shockwaves of Angela's betrayal. Aunt Phronnie never spoke ill of Angela, which was more than Amy could say of her own grandmother, but she always tensed when she was around Angela. So maybe, she didn't forgive after all. Her children, and her grandchildren, picked up on the tension as well.

"I know, Lacey, but in Aunt Annette's heart, Angela has always been her big sister. They hadn't spoken in years. . .she'll still think about chances missed, even if it was Angela who chose to give away those chances," Amy replied. There was a grumbled response from the other end of the line, and Amy smiled. Her cousin was a lot like Luke, though she was a little more prone to thinking. But she could be just as ruthless, and just as dangerous when she was protecting what was hers.

"So tell me more about this Edge character. You know, people say we foster incest," Lacey said, and Amy almost choked. Say what? Lacey continued, sounding rather pleased with herself for getting such a reaction, "It's true! Some of the people in town have noticed the way thin's are between Rusty and m'self, and shake their heads. Our great-grandmothers were sisters, so that makes our relationship incestuous."

Amy stopped and thought about it. Yes, they were cousins. . .but sixth or seventh cousins. Or was it third cousins, twice removed? She never could keep it straight. When Rusty first visited the States, years earlier, Gramma Faye introduced him as her sister's grandson. She didn't know if that qualified as incest, but she wouldn't think so. She shook her head, and returned her attention to Lacey's original question. Edge.

"You'll just have to see when we get there, Lace. We'll stay here a few more days. I've picked up where Angela left off. . .seems Edge thought Luke died only minutes after Neda did. The dream Luke sent him was interrupted," Amy told her cousin. There was an odd sound from the other end of the line, which Amy knew was her cousin trying very hard not to laugh.

"Since when, agh, since when the family stories ever go that simply? Okay, sweetie, I'll let you go before I run up your hotel bill. Give me a call when you leave, and I'll try t' be at the airport when you land. I can't make any promises. . .Aunt Annette is losin' ground," Lacey told her. Aunt Annette was losing ground. Amy supposed she should have expected that. . .her great-aunt was eighty-five years old.

As if hearing what Amy was thinking, her cousin said gently, "She'll hold on, as long as she needs to, Amy. She's too much like her daddy not to." Amy laughed in spite of herself. Yeah. She remembered what her grandmother told her once, when Amy mourned never having a chance to know her great-grandfather. 'So long as we remember him, so long as one of his blood remains alive, my father will never die.'

"Love you, cuz," Amy said simply. She heard the smile in Lacey's voice as her cousin returned the sentiment, then the girl in Texas hung up. Amy slumped back against the bed, closing her eyes. Angela was dead, as were Uncle Tanner, Aunt Phronnie, and Gramma Faye. It was just a matter of time before they lost Aunt Annette as well. How long would it be before none remembered Luke and Juliet, Drusilla, Elijah? How much time before that part of their legacy was lost?

She closed her eyes and remembered how she came to learn of that legacy, of her heritage from Luke Hurst.

Her name, when she came into the world, was Amy Charlotte Kendall. And that was whom she remained for fourteen years. She knew all about the family history. She knew about Luke, about Juliet, and about their respective siblings. She grew up hating Elijah, and adoring Drusilla. She was whom Amy most wanted to be like. The loving, protective, sensible younger sister. Drusilla was the one whom Amy most understood.

When she was fourteen years old, her parents were killed in a train accident. It devastated the child, as well as the rest of her family, and the young girl went from New York City, where her parents were raising her, to the family ranch in Texas. It was culture shock, to say the least, for the teenaged girl. Already reeling from the trauma of her parents' deaths, to find herself in a place so different from New York City. . .

She would have lost her sanity in those first few months, if not for Lacey and Diana. They were sisters, both adopted granddaughters of Aunt Phronnie. Lacey was four years older than Amy, while Diana was six years older. Their mother was one of the family skeletons. A drug addict who abandoned her children, considered even worse than Lilith. While they were still young, five and three respectively, Diana and Lacey were taken from their mother and placed in the care of their distant cousin, Phronnie, whom they called their grandmother. She and Faye were the only family the girls had.

Their mother kept vowing that she would get them back, and she probably would have, if she ever bothered to show up for her court dates. The state of Texas finally ran out of patience with her, and awarded legal custody to Aunt Phronnie. Not long after that, the girls' mother was killed. When Amy asked the sisters if they were sad when they found out their mother was dead, she received a pair of blank looks. They barely knew their mother, why would they be sad?

In a way, that helped to break Amy's own depression. It seemed so terribly sad to her, that her cousins never knew their mother. At least she had her parents for fourteen years. Luke. . .Luke was the other entity that kept Amy from following her parents some days. She saw him for the first time during her third month at the ranch. That was the problem with her family. . .they were prone to dreams and seeing ghosts.

She was exploring the property, a sage piece of advice she received from Diana and Lacey. It began raining, and drove her to a small house about a quarter mile from the big house. And there, she saw Luke. He was kneeling in front of a fire, head bent. He raised his head and turned in her direction. He smiled, murmuring, '_Bout time ya got here, girl. Been waitin' forever for ya_.'

Rattled by the encounter, Amy ran all the way back to the house in the pouring rain. Once she reached the main house, she flung herself into Diana's arms, sobbing helplessly in terror. Seventeen year old Lacey tracked down the towels and dried both Diana and Amy, while she heated up hot chocolate in the microwave for her terrified cousin. As the newcomer sputtered out her story, the sisters exchanged a look.

Once Amy finished, now starting to warm up, Diana explained that she did, indeed, see a ghost. . .a ghost of their great-grandfather, Luke Hurst. If she wanted to know Luke's story in full, she would have to talk to one of the sisters. But it was part of their heritage. . .the family members who crossed beyond the veil welcomed the new family members in one of two ways.

Either they were accepted by dreams. . .if they were far away from Texas. . .or they were welcomed in person. Thus was the case with all three girls. Diana and Lacey saw him at the same time. Unlike Amy, the sisters had a real conversation with Luke. At least, as much of a conversation a ghost could have with a five year old and a three year old. Because they were so young, it never occurred to either of them to be afraid.

According to the sisters, based on what Luke told them, he was tied to this place, so long as one of his children remained. His son Tanner was with them now (and he didn't specify whom he meant by 'them.'), but all of his daughters remained. And as long as he remained at the ranch, he would look after them. This was not verbalized, but something the girls learned.

Anytime something threatened them. . .or maybe that should be someone threatened them. . .Luke made his displeasure known. There was the time when one of the ranch hands decided to get a little frisky with Lacey. She was sixteen at the time, and told him 'no.' Evidently, he didn't take her seriously. . .at least, not until a rather heavy tool disengaged itself from the barn wall and catapulted toward the hand.

It struck him in the back of his shoulder, and he immediately released the shaken teenager. As to be expected, he whirled around. . .and shrieked in terror to find Luke glowering at him with his double-barreled pistol pointed right at his groin. The ghost said not a word. His expression. . .and his gun. . . said it all. The terrified hand raced out of the barn, screaming about haunted stalls and crazy ghosts.

Luke put his gun away with his customary smirk, looking quite pleased with himself. Not a word was said between the pair. No words were necessary. Oh yes, and the ranch hand lost his job. After word got around that he tried to mess with Phronnie Hurst's granddaughter, no one would hire him either. Sooooo. . .it was possible to say that he was run out ona rail. Late twentieth-century style.

_So you see_, Lacey said softly to her younger cousin, _you don't have anything to worry about, not with Luke around. He's here to protect us, as long as we're on his land, and as long as his daughters remain. The next time you see him, don't run away. He's kind of sensitive. He doesn't like being laughed at, and I don't think he's particularly fond of people under his protection shrieking in terror._

Amy learned the very same lesson. Only this time, it wasn't a ranch hand who didn't know the meaning of the word 'no.' She was fifteen years old, still troubled by bullies on the school bus as the new kid. But she was making progress. One day, she convinced the bus driver to drop her off a little closer to the entrance of the ranch. She was fighting a cold, her body was still acclimating to the Texas weather, and she just didn't have the energy to walk the remaining half mile.

Concerned about the sweet young girl who never gave her any trouble, the bus driver Dena agreed. This proved to be a wise decision for Amy, in more than one way. While the entrance was closer, she actually ducked under the fence. She didn't see her two primary bullies coming up behind her. . .but it wasn't necessary. The moment Amy's foot touched the grass inside the fence, she fell under Luke's protection.

The two girls reached for Amy's backpack, intending to pull her back and beat the hell out of her for getting them into trouble. However, as one girl's hand touched the strap of her backpack, she reached inside the fence. Bad move. Luke broke quite possibly half-a-dozen rules of the after life by physically pulling Amy all the way into the property. . .then blowing up the fence.

The two bullies were sprayed with splinters from the shattered fence. This time, Luke did speak. Handsonhips, his eyes blazed at the interlopers as he hissed, "_Ya stay away from her. . .else next time, I ain't gonna be so nice_." The girls ran away screaming. And they never came near Amy again. That day, however, all she could think of was that Luke was the best protector anyone could ask for.

Her fascination with Luke continued through the years. Her grandmother was full of stories about her beloved father. Like Angela in later years, Faye never ducked away from the truth about Luke Hurst. He could be a mean bastard. There were times while Faye was growing up, and he would do incredibly idiotic things to the people he loved most. He never raised his hand (or boot) to Faye, her mother, or her sisters. But he didn't always think things through.

But there was never a time that he wasn't there when they needed him. Until the gunshot wound that eventually took his life. As she told Edge, she was particularly fascinated with Luke, because like her, he lost his only remaining parent when he was fourteen. True, his birth father was still alive, but he wasn't destined to meet him until he was in his early thirties.

On the day that Gramma Faye decided to change her will, and leave her money to Amy, Amy made a decision of her own. She would change her last name to Hurst. She had her mother's blessing in this, she knew, because she learned from her mother's journal that Marnie Brown Kendall was as obsessed with Luke as she was. . .going so far as to name her baby daughter, in part, after Luke's own mother. If anyone would understand, it would be her mother.

And ever since that time, she had been Amy Charlotte Hurst. When she met Edge, she was on her way to Europe to pay her own respects to Neda's grave. It was a yearly pilgrimage for her and Gramma Faye. And after Gramma Faye died, it was a tradition that Amy carried on alone. She didn't have to tell Edge everything about her family, after all. She didn't have to tell him that the people in Neda's village knew her well. He had enough strange things happen to him since he met Angela.

In the present day, Amy looked over her shoulder at the sleeping Edge. '_You're funny_.' '_Funny, like a clown_?' '_Funny, like cute_.' She smiled and dug out Juliet's first journal, something she always brought with her when she came to Macedonia. She had a sneaking suspicion that she would find it necessary to brush up on the family history, because Edge would have a lot of questions for her.

She also had a sneaking suspicion that her own journey, and her own heart's desire, would be far different than that of Juliet Patterson Walker. And that was how it should be, for they grew up in different times, different cultures, and different families. Still. . .she thought that Juliet would be pleased.


End file.
